bucky barnes whore

He was extremely hesitant at first, understandably so given what you knew now about the whole spiderman and everyone forgetting him thing, but after getting to know you and hearing about the barrage of troubles the universe had thrusted your way, he figured if there was anyone he could trust, it was you.

A year later, not much had changed in your lives. You were still two struggling adults in your twenties just trying to get by on the day-to-day, except now, at least you had each other to cope. At least you were able to find some reprieve and light, though the pain from your lives remained a low hum in the background. 

You weren't exactly sure when it began happening—maybe a few months in—but you noticed it randomly one day. Your heart started beating faster around him. Then, he began taking up extra space in your mind until eventually, the thoughts became too loud to ignore.

You chalked the feelings up to all the trauma bonding and hours you’d spent together trying to shut out and disappear from the real world. You tried to ignore the rush of joy you felt when he laughed, or the dizziness of your head whenever you caught a glimpse of him changing out of his suit, until you were drowning in a pool of affection that you weren't sure you could surface from. 

There’d been a few times the confession almost slipped from your tongue. The intimate nights sitting out on the fire escape with food and the sound of the city in the distance, or the times where he sat a little too close to you on the couch during movie nights.

But then he’d sigh, his gaze going foggy as he zoned out on some far off point, murmuring, “MJ would have hated this movie,” or “Ned used to love this burger place.”

And just like that the words would die on your tongue. How could you ever compete with the monument of love he carried for his past relationships? No, it was easier to suppress the feelings and toss them atop the mountain of other struggles you carried. You’d learn to manage with the extra weight simple because the alternative—a life absent of his presence—wasn’t something you could fathom.

Then things started changing.

First, he was suddenly busy on your sacred days off, days you would always spend together exploring new restaurants and coffee shops around the city. Then, he started turning you away on his patrol nights, nights where you’d kept him company and even helped patch up the nastier cuts he couldn't reach. Excuse after excuse came and the fear that he’d figured out your feelings twisted your gut with nerves.

It didn't take long for you to come to the conclusion that he was building a wall to preserve the sanctity of his memory with MJ. There could be no other reason for the sudden distance. You tried convincing yourself it was for the best. The perfect solution to help you cope with losing him, because if it wasn’t now, it would be later.

You lasted exactly three days. Three days of radio silence was what it took for you to realize that no, you couldn’t do this. You couldn’t stay away from him. Maybe it was the return to a forgotten loneliness, a deep, screaming void, that had you knocking on his door frantically that night, your fist nearly pounding through the paint-chipped wood.

The door cracked open an inch and before he could get the opportunity to reject you, you pushed your way through, bursting into his apartment with a temper he’d never seen.

“Hey, stranger,” you said with a hint of venom in your voice. You turned to face him, your eyes widening slightly at the sight of his pale, flushed skin, a fine sheen of sweat settled on his temples. His eyes looked unusually dark; you blinked your own a few times to clear them and make sure you weren’t seeing something that wasn’t there. 

He said your name through the rasp of his shaky voice. “I-I’m sorry, I’m busy right now… you should go.”

“Like hell I should,” you scoffed, any anxious thoughts replaced by an unwavering surge of protectiveness. “Is this why you’ve been ghosting me? Are you sick or something?”

His face suddenly scrunched up, his hand raising to hold his head as he whimpered in pain. “I’m n-not ghosting you… I just…”

You took a step closer to him, freezing when he flinched back and held out a hand to stop you. Your heart fell to your stomach as you watched his eyes darken further. “Pete, I don’t know what’s going on but, please, let me help you… Stop pushing me away.” 

You attempted another careful step forward until he pushed himself back against the wall.

“S-stop, stop! Please just… don’t come closer.”

You swallowed down the thick lump in your throat that had risen, clenching your hands into fists to stop them from shaking. You waited patiently for him to speak, scared that the next words that left him were going to be the ones to shatter your world.

“I,” he paused, breathing in a deep breath before continuing. “I can’t… trust myself to be around you right now.”

Your brows pressed together in confusion. “Why not?”

His eyes bore into the ground as he tried to gather his thoughts over the multitude of senses that surged the moment you approached his door, but everything was fuzzy and melted together until all he could feel was you. Your presence, and it was driving him crazy.

“My systems are detecting an abnormally high heart rate, Peter,” Evie’s robotic voice rang out. “System overload is approaching.”

“Not now, Evie,” Peter choked out.

You shook your head in disbelief. “You can trust me, Peter. Please. Haven’t I proven that to you? After everything?”

“I-It’s not that—”

“Then what?” You approached him despite his protests, not stopping until you were a step away from touching.

His brain nearly short-circuited, any lasting restraint vanishing as he allowed you to fully flood his senses. The shampoo you used this morning, the perfume you’d applied a few hours ago, the fast thump thump of your heart, a beautiful rhythm that drowned out all rational thought to disarm him completely.

“Something is happening to me,” he gasped, the words tearing from his chest. “My arachnid DNA is… it’s evolving. Mutating. Everything is turned up to ten thousand a-and my impulses—” he cut himself off, slamming his head back against the door hard enough to make it rattle on its hinges. 

You shook your head, your hands reaching for him again. “If you’re scared you’ll hurt me, you won’t—”

“No!” he spat out desperately. “It’s not that I—I c-can’t—” He was practically shaking now, violent tremors racking his body.

Your heart ached as you watched him. Unable to control yourself, you lifted your hands to cup his flushed cheeks, his skin burning under your palms. “Peter,” you whispered softly, your voice reaching him over the storm raging within.

He stared at you, his pupils dilated so wide, only a thin ring of the soft brown you loved so much was present. Your lips parted with a pant at the hunger displayed in them as you got lost in their depths, a raw need you’d never seen before. “Woah…”

A low, tormented whimper escaped him when your thumbs rubbed along his skin, the sound shooting straight to pool low in your stomach, spreading a heat you scolded yourself for internally. Now was not the time.

“I can’t think straight when you’re near,” he confessed through a strained voice. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I can’t act normal. I can’t pretend like I usually do… not when all I want to do is—”

He groaned, tipping his head back against the door, a final sliver of restrain returning before he crossed the line.

“What, Peter?” you pressed, leaning closer to eliminate the last inch of space between your bodies, your chests brushing. You looked at him with such care, your gaze so gentle and understanding and comforting. “What do you want to do?”

In the split second before he moved you were able to catch the black swallowing the last fragment of brown, followed quickly by the entirety of the whites of his eyes. Then his lips were on yours.

It was all consuming as his mouth moved over yours, desperately kissing as if you were the very air that filled his lungs and it was being threatened away from him.

His hands dug into your sides, fisting your skin to pull you flush against his body until you could feel the taught muscle hidden beneath his shirt. You gasped into his mouth when he lifted you to wrap your legs around his waist, moaning when he took the opportunity to slide his tongue along yours.

He fell back onto the couch behind him, keeping you close as he continued to devour your lips, whimpering when your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging to pull him back so you could take a breath.

He fought against your grip, his eyes opening to lock onto yours when you pulled harder. Your chest heaved as you stared into the black pools with awe.

“I-I’m sorry,” he managed to say through clenched teeth, barely suppressing the desire to ravage you whole. “I tried to hide my feelings but it's harder like this.”

The smile that graced your lips had his head spinning all over again, his eyes burning as they turned glassy.

“Feelings?” you mumbled, leaning down to ghost your lips over his, the heat in your belly spreading further when he tried to chase them. You curve into him just enough to feel something poking you as he let out another strangled gasp. “You like me, Peter?”

A tear slips down his cheek when you say his name, the sound falling so beautifully from your lips, making his cock pulse harder in his sweatpants. The grip he has on you tightens, subconsciously pressing you down over his throbbing boner.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats with a shake of his head. “I don’t want to ruin what we have, I just… can’t lose you, too.”

Your heart clenches when his voice cracks with agony. You want to scream at him and the world the depths of your feelings for him, how he could never lose you and how the same fear had been tormenting you for weeks. But words felt small, too insufficient. So you showed him by capturing his lips with yours once more.

He met them with relief, his arms wrapping fully around your torso to cage you against him in an attempt to get as close to fusing your bodies together as possible. You arched into him, fully dragging your core against his cock, the friction a sweet torture that had his mouth falling open in a broken moan. 

“Please,” he gasped against your cheek.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your lips latching onto the sensitive skin as you rocked your hips faster. You could feel every inch of his cock pressing against your heat, your aching clit pulsating in your soaked panties. His grip on you turned bruising, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as he guided your movements to match how much he needed you.

“So g-good… you feel so—mngh—” he whined.

Just then a sharp blaring came from the other side of the room, a sound you recognized as his police scanner. You stilled your movements and removed your head from his neck. Before you could say anything, Peter’s arm flung out. A web whipped through the air and a second later it connected with the phone, striking it hard enough for a loud crack to sound out, silencing the alarm.

His black eyes shot back to find your surprised ones. He’d never, ever, ignored the call. But tonight he didn’t care. Tonight, all he wanted was you.

You could practically see the possession in his eyes as he stood up, holding you against him. Seconds later, your back met the soft mattress of his bed as he laid you down, quickly pressing himself back between your legs, his mouth finding your neck, kissing and nipping a trail of fire. Your mind, however, was still trying to comprehend what you’d just seen.

He intertwined his fingers with yours, pinning your hands beside your head, his hips rutting shamelessly into you with a pressure that stole your breath. You turned to stare at his wrist, bare of the bulky web shooters.

“Peter,” you panted, arching into his thrust. “How did you… the web?”

His lips trailed up your cheek, messily kissing over your lips with a desperate fervor. 

“Arachnid DNA,” is all he mumbled.

“O-Oh.. cool,” you managed to say before he swallowed the word with his tongue.

He parted to sit back on his heels, pulling his shirt over his head to reveal his sweat slicked torso. Your mouth went dry when he pulled down his sweats and underwear in one go, kicking them off the rest of the way.

Your gaze dropped, a heady moan slipping at the sight of his thick cock flushed a deep red as it pulsed against his stomach, streams of precum dripping down the sides.

He climbed back over you, pressing his cock into your clothed heat to resume his rutting, panting little sounds of pleasure into your ear.

“Mnmh—ah! I can—fuck… I can feel how warm you are, can smell you." His hands slipped beneath your shirt, running up until they grazed the soft skin of your breasts.

Something new in him snapped when he realized you weren't wearing a bra. He started snapping his hips harder into you until your body was climbing up the bed. “I’m sorry—oh god… fuck, I’m so sorry—I can't stop—”

“It’s okay, Peter.”

“No,” he pleaded, his lips brushing your throat. “I can’t hold back anymore. Fuck—I need you to tell me—”

“I’m here for you, Peter,” you whispered, cupping his face to force his dazed eyes back to yours. His lids were blotchy with tears, his lips red and kiss-swollen. You could see the struggle in them, the fight against his depraved thoughts to make sure you were okay with this. It only made you want him more. “Use me.”

Any remaining tension in his face melted. His brows relaxed, the cute crinkles by his eyes smoothing over at your permission.

He shoved your shirt over your head, moaning at the sight of your chest, your nipples peaked and begging for his touch. He captured one in his mouth, laving it with his tongue before sucking hard. His other hand rolled the other between his fingers, flicking and pinching the sensitive bud, drawing out high pitched cries from your lips.

“Mmm, so pretty, taste so sweet.”

His free hand fumbled with your pants in an attempt to push them down, a frustrated, almost animalistic groan escaping him when they caught on your hips. He gave a small tug and tore the fabric away from your body, discarding it without a second thought.

“Hey!” you yelped, the protest dying when he pressed the hot head of his cock through your sodden folds, rubbing it through the slick mess. 

The slick sounds of your wet heat were enough to make his consciousness slip as he failed to suppress a sob.

He could hear every microscopic hitch of your breath in his heightened ears, every pulse at your clit against his shaft a divine torment, the rush of your blood beneath your skin. You watched, enamored, as his eyes fluttered weakly when his tip caught at your hole, and then he was pushing in.

“O-Oh fuu—” his eyes fluttered as your tight cunt clenched around the invasion.

“I’m sorry, so sorry—so tight, fuck, ‘M sorry—” he apologized in a continuous stream as he sank in, forcing himself deeper until he was fully bottomed out. Tears slipped from his eyes, cascading down his flushed cheeks, your walls clamping down to draw out more small cries from him, basking in the sight.

You sucked in a sharp breath at the stretch. It had been a while for you and Peter was so thick. You could feel every vein, every ridge of his cock dragging against your velvety walls as his hips met yours.

Before you could fully adjust and let the sting subside, he was pulling out and driving back into you with a punctured breath, stealing the air from your lungs. You dug your nails into the muscles of his back, biting your lip to suppress a yelp as he set a brutal pace, each thrust burying him just as deep.

The head of his cock kissed your cervix with an overwhelming, euphoric pressure. 

“Cunt feels so fucking good, squeezing me so tight.”

The pain began to fade, replaced by a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles, pushing him deeper inside you. “'M so full, Peter.”

He collapsed onto you, his lips leaving wet, sloppy kisses wherever he could reach as he fucked you mercilessly, his cock pistoning in and out of you.

The pressure in your belly snuck up on you, building and coiling tight like a live wire trapped beneath your skin.

“P-Peter—!” you cried out, your cunt fluttering around his cock. You bowed off the bed, your back arching as he fucked the orgasm out of you, wave after wave of white-hot ecstasy flowing through your nerves.

The foreign scent of your cum invaded his senses, something he could only describe as overwhelmingly you and all-consuming, causing his eyes to screw shut with a sob.

The violent constrictions of your walls around his cock only edged him on further. He fucked you through your climax with ragged, desperate bucks, his movements dissolving into a frenzy, the filthy sounds of wet skin slapping together filling the room.

You latched onto his wrists beside your head, feeling an intense heat radiating from the hypersensitive skin over his organic webbing. Before you were even aware of your actions, your head was turning, your lips pressing a soft kiss to his wrist.

Words were beyond him as your touch reduced him to incoherent, whimpering babbles. “Feels… s’good—mphm. C-Can’t… ‘M yours… all yours—”

His thrusts turned erratic, his gut tightening as he rested his forehead on your chest, nuzzling into your skin in an attempt to sink into you, to become one.

"It h- it hurts—can't stop... 'M sorry—"

You could feel his cock swelling inside you, his thrust faltering to shallow, uncoordinated thrusts. A sob wretched from him, wanton and broken, hot tears spilling from his clenched eyes, dripping onto your skin.

"Come for me, Peter."

He sank all the way in one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go as his body tensed.

Then his mind blanked.

His vision went black, speckled with stars. With a guttural cry, he came, his release a torrent, spilling deep into your cunt in thick, hot pulsing waves. He whined into your chest, his body spasming through each powerful jet.

You panted through each hard twitch of his cock, overwhelmed with the sheer volume of cum as he continued to fill you, the sensation so intense you struggled to catch your breath. It just kept going as he shook above you, his cum leaking out around the base of his cock still stuffed deep inside you.

He stayed there as your cunt milked every drop, creating a home for himself, content with living inside you for as long as you'd let him.

You carded a hand through his hair as tremors continued to wrack his oversensitive body. “Shh, you’re okay,” you whispered into his ear, your voice hoarse. “You did so good.”

He went boneless above you, a dead, spent weight. Eventually, his softened cock slipped from your used cunt, followed by a stream of his release dripping down to soak the sheets as you whimpered through it all.

A few moments later, the silence in the room was broken by Evie’s voice. “Heart rate regulated. Vitals have returned to baseline levels.”

It seemed to bring Peter back to earth. He lifted his head from your chest with a groggy moan, blinking blearily down at you. His eyes were back to their normal, warm brown, the black reduced to his pupils, though still glazed with wonder.

You guided him to his back, leaning over to wipe the tears from his cheek before pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

He sniffled, fresh tears welling in his bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I didn’t… I didn’t want it to happen like that. I wanted to be… better for you.”

You shushed him gently, kissing his cheek. “We’re okay.”

“I’m sorry,” he insisted, the vulnerability clear in his tone. “I am.”

You shook your head, a small smile playing at your lips. “Then never ignore me like that again.”

He sniffled with a nod, his lips squirking up into that boyish smile that made your heart ache. “Okay.”

“Do you feel better?” you asked, your hands smoothing down his chest.

He nodded, a dark blush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. “I didn’t know I could feel that good,” he admitted with awe. 

“Has it been a while for you, too?”

He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking away for a second before meeting yours again anxiously. ‘I’ve never, um…” he took a shaky, deep breath. “That was my uh, first time.”

Your hands froze on his chest. “What?”

He winced. “I told you I couldn’t control myself.”

You laughed at the surprising confession, leaning down to brush your nose against his. “Well, at least it was memorable.”

He smiled, all shy and genuine and so Peter-like, you couldn’t resist kissing him, tender and slow. Your hand continued rubbing, your thumb brushing over a nipple, circling it to a peak when he whimpered, his whole body jolting back away at your touch.

“Tsk, so sensitive.” Your hand trailed lower, grazing over the dips of muscle to rest just above where his cock was stirring back to life. “So how easy is it for that side of you to come out?”

His breath caught as your finger dug into the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. When you flicked your eyes back up to his, you saw it again.

The inky blackness had started to expand, swallowing the warm brown, once again drawn out by you. 

Comment or message to be added to the taglist <3

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very untrusting?” She raises a brow playfully. 

Your eyes narrowed, already preparing another comeback when the heavy grated iron door groaned open from the other side of the room. Years of training settled over you before you even realized it had happened, your gaze snapping toward the entrance before flicking immediately to Yelena.

“Were you expecting company?”

She made an exaggerated show of thinking about it, lips pursed and finger tapping thoughtfully against her chin before her expression broke into an impossibly smug grin.

“Oh. Right.”

A figure in bright red stepped hesitantly through the haze, stopping just inside the doorway as though he wasn’t entirely convinced he’d walked into the correct room. Spider-Man looked between the two of you, then back toward the hallway as if debating on running. As if seeing two naked widows was the biggest threat he’d seen all day. 

Yelena didn’t give him the chance. “Take off your clothes.”

“W-what?” 

“You don't wear clothes in the banya, ditch the leotard.” She ordered. 

“This is not a leotard.” He shuffled awkwardly, his arms moving around his sides aimlessly. “Uh, your tech told me this was your office?” 

Yelena’s arms went up, “This is my office. Get in.” 

His entire body tenses, “I’m fine thanks-“ 

“Waa, waa.” Yelena laughs, “My office, my rules.” 

He’s not biting, which makes you stifle a laugh. The silence stretched just long enough that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.

Yelena leaned forward conspiratorially, as though she were making him the deal of a lifetime.“You get to enjoy a very nice, relaxing soak..“

You finally took pity on him, and picked up where she intentionally left off. “And we get confirmation you aren’t carrying any weapons. Everybody wins.” 

His masked head turned toward you, the eyes on his suit getting animatedly larger. 

“…Seriously?”

You smiled sweetly. “Seriously. I’ve learned to stop fighting her on it, it’s very nice in here.” 

His shoulders sagged in the unmistakable posture of someone realizing resistance was entirely pointless. With a defeated sigh, he shuffled toward one of the wooden stalls. The stall door clicked shut behind him, and almost immediately the muffled rustle of fabric echoed through the room. At the same time, Yelena lazily stirred the water with one hand, looking altogether too pleased with herself.

“He said it was some small potato problem,” she murmured, effortlessly slipping into Russian. “Figured two Avengers could help him with intel.” 

You hum, “Why didn’t you tell me he was coming by?” 

“I forgot.” 

“I don’t believe you.” You rolled your eyes, earning another satisfied grin from her just as the wooden stall creaked open. Spider-Man stepped out clutching a white towel around his waist with both hands like it was a lifeline. His shoulders were tense enough to rival a man walking into an execution, his face hidden behind the mask he’d somehow insisted on keeping despite surrendering the rest of the suit.

You had expected him to be lean, scrawny almost. 

Instead, you found yourself staring for half a second longer than intended.

The suit had done him absolutely no favors. Beneath it were years of relentless training, packed onto a frame that looked carved from stone, broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, every muscle defined by years of keeping the city safe. His arms alone looked capable of lifting a car without much effort, his biceps so absurdly large you were fairly certain one of them rivaled the size of his own head.

You caught Yelena watching your expression from the corner of your eye. The smug little smile spreading across her face told you she had noticed your momentary lapse immediately. 

Yelena burst into laughter, which stopped abruptly when she realized he was in fact not actually going to take the mask off. 

“Wait, you’re serious? You’re not going to take it off?” 

He slips into the water, “It would defeat the whole anonymous thing.” 

“Even for your girlfriend, or boyfriend, or whatever.” She trails off, “You know there’s fanart-“ 

You tuned her out almost immediately, letting the words fade into meaningless background noise while she enthusiastically listed the bizarre piece of online fan art she’d stumbled across. You had long ago accepted that Yelena somehow found herself on the strangest corners of the internet imaginable, usually against her own will and yet somehow always with enough curiosity to constantly send links to the group chat. Bucky had blocked her long ago. 

The first night she downloaded Twitter, she had run into the common room, her tablet clutched in her hand her eyes searching for Bucky as he very innocently was eating his popcorn. “Barnes, have you ever heard of Sambucky? Or a website called AO3?” 

You’re pulled out of the memory when Spider-Man speaks up again. 

“- Look, I don’t have anyone. I kinda keep to myself.” 

“All by yourself? All the time?” Her voice falls. “No wonder you’re so sad.” 

“I’m not so sad.” He lies, his voice rising a pitch. 

“A little bit.” She mumbles, then her shoulders straighten as if she just got the idea of a lifetime. “You know, my sister here is very lonely too. She says she is not, but yet every weekend she is with me or eating ice cream pretending we cannot hear her watching those horrible American movies through the walls.”

You turn your head to her, expression blank. “Yelena.”

“Can we talk about what I came here to talk about? The attack on Damage Control. ” Spider-Man buts in, making you nod in agreement. 

“Yes, can we?” 

“Right,” The shit-eating grin is still wide on her face, “So that is more your area. Like small potato, whereas the New Avengers are focusing on big potato stuff.” 

“Right, there’s more to it than that.” He adds. Going on about what he had learned the past day and giving details of the incident that had not been made public yet. 

The warmth of the water settled around you as you absentmindedly dragged your fingers across its surface, watching small ripples spread between the three of you while you pieced together everything he was saying. After a long moment, you glanced toward Yelena.

“So you think it’s something like what they used on us?” you asked quietly. “The conditioning. Whatever they did to the other widows.”

“That was my first thought,” Spider-Man admitted, looking toward Yelena.

“It’s not,” She replied without a second’s hesitation.

Spider-Man frowned beneath the mask. “You’re sure?”

”It is more like possession."

You hum, your hands still moving the water around in front of you as they talk, letting Yelena fill the two of you in on what she knew. Unfortunately, every road ended exactly where it had begun. The New Avengers had no additional intelligence, no active investigation, and no plans to divert resources toward Damage Control while larger threats occupied their attention.

Spider-Man didn’t argue, but disappointment settled visibly across his shoulders all the same. The hopeful energy he’d arrived with slowly disappeared beneath the weight of another dead end, and after sitting quietly for a moment, he let out a long sigh before pushing himself up from the water.

“Fine,” he muttered, reaching for the towel he’d left folded on the bench. “I’ll just go ask Damage Control myself.”

You very intentionally kept your eyes fixed somewhere above his shoulder, refusing to acknowledge the beads of water slowly tracing paths over abs that the suit had done an excellent job of concealing. Or the way the veins in his muscles flexed when he pulled himself up. Or the way his boxers clung to his thick thighs. 

“You know,” Yelena said with far too much innocence to be trusted, “you’re not completely anonymous anymore.”

Spider-Man paused in the middle of grabbing his clothes. “What?”

“I’ve seen your belly button.”

All you could do was sigh, letting your body sink further into the water until your chin was covered. 

“…Uh,” Spider-Man finally managed after several painfully long silent seconds, “okay.”

“Goodbye, Yelena,” he said, already halfway through the doorway before remembering to glance toward you. “And… goodbye, Y/N.”

The heavy iron door barely had time to swing shut behind him before he was gone, leaving a trail of wet footprints stretching down the hallway outside. You waited until the echo of his footsteps disappeared before leaning over and bumping your shoulder against Yelena’s.

”You’ve scared him off.” 

“Hmm, something is telling me you’ll see him again.” She smirks.

Before you had the chance to ask what exactly that was supposed to mean, Yelena slipped beneath the surface without another word, disappearing completely beneath the rippling water while you were left staring after her, equal parts amused and unconvinced.

News of the attacks seemed impossible to escape days later. Every television hanging in an airport terminal, every radio crackling through military transports, every phone notification carried another version of the same story, each one somehow more unbelievable than the last. 

 The majority of your updates came from Yelena, whose texts arrived at all hours of the day with the urgency of someone who had remembered a detail halfway through another conversation. It was a lot of, “Just talked to Spider-Man;)))))) u wish this was u huh?????” 

You and Bucky had spent the better part of the week chasing leads that dissolved into nothing before you could ever get close enough to investigate. Reconnaissance, surveillance, more reconnaissance, another anonymous tip that turned into an abandoned warehouse with little more than stale coffee cups and dust to show for it. By the time your transport finally touched back down stateside, you felt like you’d spent more time staring through binoculars than actually accomplishing anything. 

“Remind me why people still choose to live in New York,” you muttered as you dropped a thick stack of mission reports onto Val’s desk with enough force to make the folders slide apart. “

“I’ve stopped wondering.” Bucky admitted, “It was nicer in the 40s.”

You sighed, rubbing absentmindedly at the side of your neck where the edge of your Kevlar vest had spent the last several days digging relentlessly into your skin. The movement earned an immediate wince as the irritated patch protested beneath your fingertips.

“You should put ice on that,” Bucky said, noticing before you’d even finished reaching for it. He shrugged off his own tactical vest with considerably more irritation than necessary before tossing it onto the chair beside him. “Couple more days in these things and it’s going to rub you raw. These vests are garbage.”

“They’re definitely not sized correctly.”

“They’re not sized correctly because procurement buys whatever’s cheapest.”

A tired laugh escaped you. “I think Val just hates us.”

“I’ll have her order us different sizes,” he continued, already looking toward her office despite knowing she was deliberately never here. “These are shit.”

You smiled despite yourself, unfastening the last strap before setting your own vest aside. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“So what’s next?”

“I think…” You stretched your shoulders until your back gave a satisfying pop. “I might stop by Yelena’s office.”

He raised an eyebrow knowingly. “Checking on your sister?”

“And Spider-Man.” You said casually, “Heard he got shot, she’d know how he’s doing” 

“Oh? That’s it huh?” 

“I just want to know how his Damage Control adventure went.” You defended yourself, despite there being no reason to. 

Bucky laughed quietly through his nose. “Good luck with that.”

“Yelena?” you called as you nudged the heavy iron door open with your shoulder, expecting to be greeted by either an insult or something thrown in your general direction.

Instead, silence answered you.

The bath sat empty, steam lazily drifting through the room while the familiar scent of cedar, herbs, and eucalyptus lingered in the warm air. The water rippled softly beneath the lantern light, untouched except for the occasional drip falling from the ceiling into the pool below. You still wondered how this building managed to keep up with the humidity. 

You frowned, pulling your phone from your pocket.

I’m at your office. Where are you?

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

running 2 get food

Another notification popped up before you could even lock your screen.

do u want blini

wait no dumplings

there's an ice cream cart do u want 

of course u want why do i ask

Then another.

I'll get them all brb

there's new vodka stashed under the third bench, landlady got a new bottle from home country 

You couldn’t help smiling. 

thanks. I’ll warm the bath for you. bring me a tea 

Her reply came so quickly you wondered if she’d been holding the phone the entire time.

yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy girly time 

Chuckling to yourself, you slipped your phone onto one of the dry benches before slipping your clothes off in an untidy pile until all that remained was the comforting humidity wrapping around your skin.

You eased yourself carefully down the stone steps until the water climbed past your ankles, your knees, your waist, every aching muscle loosening a little more with each inch. The heat seeped deep into your bones, unraveling tension you hadn’t even realized you’d been carrying since boarding the quinjet days earlier.

By the time the water reached your shoulders, the exhaustion finally caught up with you.

A quiet, involuntary moan escaped your lips as you leaned your head back against the smooth stone edge of the bath, your eyes slipping closed while the warmth wrapped around every sore joint and bruised muscle. For the first time in what felt like days, your breathing slowed, your shoulders finally relaxed.

So completely, in fact, that you never heard the heavy iron door slowly creak open behind you.

”Uh, Ms. Y/n?” A timid voice spoke, making the tension rise back in your shoulders as you jumped. The bright red suit made your heart race out of shock and a weird sense of nervousness at being here alone with him.

“G-God, I’m so sorry,” he blurted, spinning around so quickly he nearly lost his footing on the damp stone. His back was to you before you’d even managed to respond, his hands raised awkwardly as if surrendering. “I didn’t mean to walk in on you. Yelena said she’d be here today and I just… I thought…” He groaned quietly to himself. 

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice softer now as the adrenaline finally ebbed away. “Really. She’s just getting food. She should be back any minute.”

“I’ll just wait here.” 

“Spidey,” You pout playfully, splashing the water to beckon him in, “Join me.” 

“Are you sure?”

”Yes.”

“I was actually…” He hesitated, sounding almost embarrassed to admit it. “I was kind of looking forward to the soak.”

That pulled a genuine laugh from you. “Right?”

He glanced over his shoulder just enough that you caught the sheepish grin tugging beneath the edge of the mask. 

“I wasn’t sure if it was weird that I was, I’ll just change.”

“It took me a while too,” you admitted, as he disappeared into the stall, “The first time Yelena dragged me down here I thought she’d finally lost her mind. Now I’m her after almost every mission.”

”Man,” He says through muffled fabric, equipment dropping on the wood bench, “I’d love to come and soak after a long day.” 

“I’m sure Yelena would allow it, as long as you don’t throw a party in here or tell anyone or make a mess.” You drag on, smiling as he came into view. This time with no towel wrapped around him, just his boxers clinging expertly to him as he stepped inside the water.

He leaned back against the stone edge with a contented sigh, finally allowing his shoulders to drop. For the first time since you’d met him, he looked… peaceful.

It was then your eyes caught the scar.

Angry red tissue stretched across his side just beneath his ribs, the wound still fresh despite already being sealed shut. The edges remained inflamed, the skin surrounding it slightly pink from rapid healing that no ordinary body should have been capable of.

He followed your gaze and instinctively looked down at himself. “Oh, that.”

One hand brushed lightly across the mark before he flexed experimentally, watching the skin pull without discomfort.

”I was going to ask, how you were doing. Yelena was giving me updates.” 

“Doctor’s said it will leave a nasty scar, but I heal faster than most.” His voice is quieter now, reflective as you stare at him. “I can barely feel it.” 

“This was a gunshot that almost killed you, just days ago?” 

He nodded, sensing your hesitation. “You can touch it.” 

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d offered. Maybe because it didn’t hurt anymore, or maybe because the concern written so plainly across your pretty face made something warm settle in his chest. There was something strangely comforting about it, enough that he found himself hoping you would say yes before he’d even realized he’d been hoping at all.

You held his gaze through the mask for a brief moment, silently asking if he was certain, and when he gave another small nod you pushed gently through the water until barely a foot separated the two of you. The movement sent soft ripples across the surface, brushing against his shoulders as you lifted your hand. Instead of pressing your palm directly against the wound, the backs of your knuckles grazed lightly across the newly healed skin, careful enough that it almost wasn’t a touch at all.

“I heal faster due to a diluted version of the serum they give us widows, but nothing like this.” Your fingertips traced lightly around the edge of the injury without putting pressure on it, fascinated by how smooth the tissue already felt. “But nothing like this. This shouldn’t even be closed yet.”

“Y-Yeah…”

The word caught somewhere in his throat.

A visible shiver rolled across his shoulders, one that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of the water. It was the realization that you were standing impossibly close now, naked underneath the murky water, and close enough that he could count the droplets of water clinging to your shoulders, close enough that every sensible thought he’d had moments earlier evaporated into steam.

His eyes betrayed him.

For only the briefest second, they dipped downward before he caught himself, snapping immediately back to your face with an expression that could only be described as horrified with himself.

“I’ve…” He cleared his throat a little too forcefully. “I’ve been having some issues with my DNA and the spider thing.” 

“The spider thing.” You echo, urging him to continue.

He rubbed the back of his neck, grateful for the excuse to look anywhere but directly at you.

“It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, but my arachnoid DNA started climbing way higher than it’s supposed to. I was acting… not exactly like myself for a while.” He gestured vaguely with one hand, struggling to summarize weeks of bizarre mutations. “I’ve started shooting webs out of my actual wrists instead of using web shooters, and apparently that’s only one of the side effects. Everything is stabilizing now, though. I’m… mostly normal again.”

Your expression shifted from amusement to fascination almost instantly. “Out of your wrists?”

Before he could answer, your hand had already slipped from his side to his forearm. Your fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, turning it over in the warm water until the small opening nestled against his skin came into view. 

“I used to make web fluid, but now it’s all homegrown.” He jokes, but goes silent when you don’t laugh instead you’re too fascinated. 

“Do you shoot webs from other places?” 

“Oh, no. Absolutely not. No, no.” He shook his head so quickly a few damp curls escaped the edge of the mask. “Just… just the wrists. I’m very normal everywhere else.”

A small hum escaped you, thoughtful more than anything else.“That’s a shame.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“I said that’s a shame.”

“No, I heard you. You sound… disappointed.”

“I’m not disappointed,” you corrected with a sheepish smile, finally releasing his wrist. “I just think it would’ve been kind of interesting.”

For a long second he simply stared at you.

“What? I like spiders too, you know?”

Then a laugh escaped him, bright and completely unrestrained, echoing warmly off the cedar walls. He shook his head, still smiling to himself as he looked down at the water between you.

“You widows,” he shook his head, “You guys are something else.” 

“Hmm, and what about you, Spidey? What are you?” 

He pauses for a moment, his mind going back to the first night he officially met you in this bath, the towel clutched around him while Yelena spoke enough for the both of you. 

“I am lonely,” he admitted at last, the confession coming softer than he’d intended. There wasn’t any self-pity in his voice, only a quiet sort of acceptance. “It’s… gotten better lately. A lot better, actually. But your sister was right.” He laughed weakly to himself, shaking his head. “I hate giving her that satisfaction.”

Your smile widened despite yourself. “So do I, but alas she keeps being right.” 

He shifts a little closer, either consciously or subconsciously you don’t know. Close enough that you could make out the constellation of freckles scattered across his shoulders. Close enough to hear the steady rhythm of his breathing over the gentle splash of water against the stone. Close enough that every time either of you shifted even slightly, your knees threatened to brush.

For reasons neither of you could explain, the room suddenly felt much warmer than it had a moment before.

“I’m not very good at… this,” Peter admitted with a nervous smile, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Talking to people, getting close to people. I mean I think you’re the first person to touch me in years. Is that depressing?” 

“A little.” You admit with a playful smile. “But I understand. Our lives, it’s impossible to have normal relationships.” 

“You don’t know the half of it.” He breathes out, and neither of you move. You both just sit there, relaxing against the concrete wall. The tension between the two of you is electric, it’s like every drop of water is drawing you closer to him.

The silence is only broken when he decides to speak up, “She sure is taking a while.” 

“She sure is…” You turn to him, “You really never take the mask off for anyone?” 

He shakes his head, “I try not to.” 

You watch the fabric strain against his lips, and you yearn to see how plump they are. What shade of pink, how they’d feel against your own. You wanna see his nose, feel it pressed against your skin, to watch his eyes as you touch him.

“Not even a little?” You ask, your palms moving up to cup his cheek. 

“It’s easier this way.” He says and he’s not sure if he’s telling you, or trying to convince himself. His body ignites with each rub of your fingers against the fabric. 

You sit up, your hands falling to his shoulders.

“Is this okay?” 

“More than okay.” He whispers, in awe as you practically tangle yourself in his lap. He holds you gracefully, and respectfully as you straddle him. You can feel his boxers against your inner thigh as his hands hover respectfully on the outside of your ribcage to keep you balanced. 

Your fingertips trace the outline of his face, trying to memorize the feel of his cheekbones. 

“I’ve spent so long wondering what you look like under there,” you admitted, your voice barely louder than your own breathing. 

“Just like anyone else.” He managed to get out, his mouth going dry as he all but melted underneath your touch. 

“I find that,” You lean forward, pressing a kiss to his fabric-covered forehead, “Very hard to believe.” 

He shivers, fingers digging into your skin as you press long kisses down his cheeks right to where the mask ends and his skin begins. 

“Would you,” The warmth of your breath makes the hair on his neck stand up, “Be willing to move the mask up about, an inch or two?” 

“I-“ 

“You don’t have to.” You remind him, leaning back to catch his eyes again. “I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable-“ 

One hand leaves your skin, pulling the mask up just enough to expose his plump and waiting lips. There’s barely enough time to stare at the new part of him before he's pulling your lips into his. It’s a little clumsy at first, awkward with the bunched-up mask rubbing against your nose, but you make it work. His lips were warm against yours, opening his mouth at the first swipe of your tongue against it. 

He pulls away with a gasp, “Can I touch you?” 

You’re nodding before he can get it out, letting his head drop down so his mouth could suck and bite at your chest. Your nipples are pebbled by being exposed to the cool air, only warming once he pulls one into his warm and waiting mouth. 

One of his hands is already guiding your legs apart, his fingers slipping in between your folds. 

“You’re so wet.” He whispered against your tits. 

“We’re in water.” Your eyes were closed, relishing the feeling of the gentle circles he was rubbing into your aching clit. 

“And I’ve been able to smell you since I walked in, you can’t hide from me.” 

Your heart rate picks up, and he no doubt feels that too as he slips a finger inside of you. You’re all but grinding against his fingers, your clit brushing against the raised spot on his wrist. 

“F-fuck,” You cry out, “Can feel your wrist throbbing against me.” 

“It wants to shoot webs at you, wants to wrap you in them. Keep you all for myself,” He whispers, “You’d like that wouldn’t you? You want me to fuck my webs into you.”

There’s no shame to be had at the fire that licks in your lower belly at his words as you nod frantically. 

In a split second you’re being pulled up from the water, and laid down on a towel. Your head propped up by his discarded suit bunched up as he hovers above you. 

He leans down and licks a strip of water droplets from your tits, before his hand travels back down to your cunt. 

There’s a soft hiss as his webs disperse onto you, they’re warm and sticky and practically dissolve into your wetness as he slides two fingers inside of you. With each brush of your clit against his wrist, he dribbles out fluid that only makes him fuck into you faster. His fingers curl expertly, and the sounds bouncing off the walls of the bath are lewd. 

“You’re so dirty,” He growls against your skin, feeling every nerve on his body stand up. The inhibitor did little to quell just how feral he felt pressed against you. His cock was hard in his boxers, rutting against the soft skin of your leg to dull the ache. “You know, this is how spiders mate. They roll their sperm into webs and fuck them into the female.” 

Your moan is broken off into confusion as you watch him, a small smile on his lips. “Yeah?” 

“Sorry,” He whispered, his fingers still prying the nastiest sounds from your heat. “This is really hot.” 

“You know, widows kill their mate after sex.” You manage to stutter out. 

“Are you gonna kill me?” He asks, pressing harshly against your clit with another messy ooze of his webs. 

“G-god no, I’m gonna cum.” You’re all but gasping as he pries an orgasm out of you 

Your legs are shaking, chest heaving by the time you come to. He’s still sitting between your legs, boxers still on as he presses gentle kisses to your thigh. 

You try to take him off guard by flipping him over onto his back, as gently as you could. He lands with a huff, and you pretend he didn’t see that coming. The view of you on top of him has him reeling, your tits bouncing as you tug briskly down at his boxers, pressing your lips to his.

“I can’t,” He pulls away from your lips reluctantly, “I can’t take the mask off.” 

“I don’t care.” You sigh pressing your lips harshly against his again. 

When he pulls away this time, a thread of spit connects your mouths. “I'm sorry, I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable if you can’t see me-“

”I don’t care,” You echo, “I just wanna feel you.” 

“The mask stays on.” He asks, once more to confirm. 

“The mask stays on.” You agree, digging your nails into his shoulder blades as you reach down to guide his aching cock to your entrance. You slide down on him with a satisfying hiss, gasping at the stretch of him. His cock is so thick, you have to pace yourself before your hips meet his.

“God.” He seethes through his clenched jaw, his eyes rolling back into his head. You wished so badly to see the pathetic, fucked out look on his face. “You feel so good.” 

“You’re huge.” You sigh contentedly, rocking your hips lazily against his as his tip presses gently into your sweet spot each time. 

You ride him slowly, relishing the moans leaving his glossy lips. Or the way his abs tense every few seconds as you bounce and grind against him. It’s frantic, but intimate as you fall apart above him. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He pants, watching your thighs shake as the thick curve of his cock pressed against the deepest parts of you. 

“Spidey.” You moaned, your palms heavy on his chest as you tried to keep up your rhythm, failing when the pleasure overtook you.

“Right there, baby. Fuck.” The term of endearment leaves his mouth recklessly as he leans up, the soles of his feet hitting the ground as he fucks up into you. His hands are on your tired hips, picking you up and fucking yourself on his cock as if you weigh nothing. He hit every single spot inside of you, the bulge of him pressing deep against your stomach as you cried out for him. 

“I’m gonna- I’m gonna-“ 

“I got you,” He cooed, “Cum for me, let me feel you.” 

He felt every second of it, as you spasmed and came around him. It wasn’t too long before he followed behind you, letting your cunt milk him for every drop of his cum. It was warm, and thick. You’ve never felt this full before, it felt like he was coating your insides, claiming you as his. 

“Spidey,” You mumbled, “That was…” 

“I know…” He sighed dreamily, rubbing gentle circles into your hips from where he still lazily held you.

You pull off of him with a lewd pop, his release dribbling down your inner thighs. 

“It’s so thick.” You stare in amazement, a finger gliding through the thickened cum.

He sits up quickly, head tilting in confusion. “That’s- it’s not webbing.” 

“Definitely not normal.” You giggle like a schoolgirl,. “Don't worry. I’m into it. Majorly.” 

He shakes his head in disbelief, watching each sway of your hips as you slide into one of the shower stalls. He just lays there, chest still heaving in disbelief that the past twenty minutes have even happened. 

“You not gonna clean me up, Spidey?” You speak through the haze of the shower spray and a smirk falls on your face when you hear his feet frantically slapping against the wet concrete.

That’s how Yelena finds the two of you, your back pressed against the metal of the stall door. The water long gone cold as Spider-Man had your eyes shut in pleasure while he fucks up into you harshly, blubbering out pathetic moans of your name. 

You’re still sensitive and so full from his last release by the time he slides into you again. He leaves no stone unturned as he urges you to come apart around him again, and again. 

“Yes, yes,” He grunted, “Is this okay?” 

“Yes.” You cried out, your legs locking around his ass to prevent him from stopping, as if he’d ever dream of it, “Please don’t stop. I’m right there, right fucking there.” 

The metal stall was shaking with the ferocity of it, the sound of his hips slapping against yours drowned out by your cries. 

“Are you gonna cum?” He panted, his fingers already rubbing at your swollen clit, “I need you to cum for me.” 

“I’m gonna cum,” You nod, “Just keep going. Yeah, like that fuck. Fuck, Spidey I’m cumming.” 

“M’behind you.” His hips stuttered as your cunt suckled him in and drank in every drop of thick cum he released deep inside of you. 

“Fuck.” You laughed lazily, pressing your sweaty temple against his shoulder. He shuddered when he tried to pull out, his cum plopping out of you and clinging to his cock like glue. “Guess you gotta stay inside of me.” 

“There’s worse places to be.” He laughed, pressing a gentle kiss to your head. 

The blissful afterglow was interrupted by a loud throat clearing, Yelena’s voice carrying through the steam.

You sit in silence, more confused than scared. Your thighs are still shaking from the incredible highs he's taken you to, your pussy still aching from his size, his load, his passion. Peter runs his hands through his curls, which are a bit sticky from his sweat. "I can explain it to you when you're sober, i-it's going to be a lot to take in. Is that okay? You can stay the night... Please don't leave.. I'll sleep on the couch." You stare at his pitiful puppy face, hesitantly, you nod. Your heart's racing a thousand miles an hour, carefully, Peter tugs the comforter over your naked form, so gentle compared to the beast he'd been moments ago. God, was he a monster? He felt like a monster.

He moves away quickly, wiping the sweat from his forehead before yanking up his boxers. His brain messed up from the sex, the arachnid hormones fogging his senses, his dick was still twitching– alive with need but he was too embarrassed to even look at you right now. He can't believe you had to see him like that.

Internal doubt crept into his heart that he would never be able to experience these things again, maybe it wasn't a huge deal because he never went out of his way to hook up with anyone. This felt special with you, even though he was pretty sure you'd sneak out after he fell asleep, and it was nothing more than a drunk fling to you. He owed you an explanation but he didn't want to overwhelm your brain until he knew you'd be able to process it. He didn't want you to go home alone and was stunned from the fact he went arachnid on you mid-orgasm. He hated this. Why can't his body just stay normal? A way he can still be Spider-Man, but also Peter Parker. Maybe there's a way, he's too tired now to think about it. He's more worried about you than himself.

Peter doesn't sleep a wink all night, he's too anxious about the following day, what you'll think, what you might say, would you think he's a monster?

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

The dawn peered through the windows of Peter's apartment sooner than he would've preferred, though sleep came easy to your intoxicated self, when you awoke, your head had a diabolical pain. Hangovers, one of the worst things to curse mankind. A little before noon is when you finally muster yourself out of the unfamiliar bed which is not your own, putting the pieces together, it's obvious you had a drunk hookup, and your memories are a little fuzzy. You find a t-shirt laid over a chair and tug it over your bare body, it fits nicely, but it isn't yours. If you had an "I survived my trip to NYC" shirt, you'd wear it more often. Your feet pad against the cold floor as you exit the unfamiliar bedroom, into the small living room area. You find someone laying on the creaky couch, and an odd amount of tech to your left.

"Hello?" You say softly, in case he's asleep.

Peter perks up quickly, turns to look at you. Somehow, more beautiful than last night. He smiles awkwardly.

"H-Hey... You sleep okay?"

"Yeah, good. Thanks."

There's tension, you're not sure why, but Peter looks like he's five seconds away from bolting right off the edge of the fire escape. "Are you okay...?"

"Um, yeah? Yeah. Fine." Now he's confused, do you not remember anything? He notices a small limp in your step as you move to sit on the couch beside him. Oh man, he wish that wasn't attractive, knowing that he fucked you enough to leave a lasting impression. He covers his recovering boner with a throw pillow. "Did... sorry I did that." He gestures to your limp.

"Mm, it's okay. Means you did something right."

"D-Do you remember anything?" He asks shakily.

"Like what? The sex? The party?"

"B-both."

"Sort of. Why didn't you sleep next to me?"

"Look, I'm just going to be honest with you, I promised I would last night..." Peter's eyes dart to his hands in his lap as you sit next to him more comfortably.

"Okay..."

"When we- finished," he clears his throat. "my body got really overwhelmed. I have- different DNA."

"What do you mean?"

"You have to promise me you will not tell anyone!"

"I don't have much of a circle, it's more like a triangle. Maybe a really short line."

"Promise!!"

"Okay! I promise!!"

Peter exhales, shoulders slumping. "I'm Spider-Man. And last night whenever I– like- finished my eyes turned black and you got really scared, and I felt horrible because you didn't deserve to see that. And I wanted to be honest because it doesn't feel right taking advantage of you like that and not explaining myself, and, I'm sorry."

Okay that was a lot to take in. You sit there for a minute, stunned by both his words and the pounding in your temples. "You're really Spider-Man?"

"Yeah. I guess I'm like going through stages or something, my body's been changing, I sense things more than I could before, and my webs are literally coming out of my wrists! It's disgusting!!"

You can't help but chuckle a little. "You can do that?" He nods, blush blooming over his freckled cheeks. "That's cool..."

"You're not weirded out?"

"No, why would I be?"

"I feel like most people would've gotten freaked out and like... ran out the door."

"To be fair, if I hadn't been drunk, I probably would have. I banged Spider-Man, so...That's a win in my book. I won't tell anyone, I promise."

Peter's face washes with relief as your words sink in.

"So... Did your new senses peak out last night?"

"Yeah, it was kinda embarrassing. I was like... Out of my mind."

"Clearly, I'm limping." You joke. "I think it's attractive."

"Y-you do?" His voice cracks.

"Yeah, you used your new abilities to fuck me. Tell me, what did you do to me, Spider-Man?" His breath hitches, he gulps. Then something makes him smirk,

"I'll just show you."

"Really?"

"Maybe now that you're sober you'll appreciate it more."

Just like that, he swept you off of the couch, and back to his bed. You felt a bit more in control now, alcohol couldn't fog your brain. Peter bent down sliding your panties down your legs. Then his face disappears between your thighs, "Pete-!" His tongue drags along your slit, making you shudder, your body tensing from that sweet, first contact. "Oh my god." You moan.

He isn't sure if the chill that runs down his spine is his own or his arachnid senses. He feels that thrum again, the same one that made him snap last night and pound into you to cause the limp you have today. Damn, you tasted like perfection served on a silver platter, his hands pushing your thighs back a bit to expose your pussy to him, his tongue going to work while his nose brushed against your clit, making you tremble. He's honestly so addicted to eating you now, all of a sudden, when your legs jerk back, he grunts and sits up. "You gotta quit movin' baby," he mutters, pressing your legs back as far as you're comfortable with, he makes you hold them in place, and he shoots a web over both of your hands.

"Pete!!" You exclaimed at the sticky feeling trapping your hands against the underside of your knees.

"Gotta stay still." He mumbles, and dives back in. Slowly slurping, like a man starved for weeks on end and this pussy is the only hope of keeping him alive. He edges you closer, and closer, until you're right on the brink of a precious orgasm, he can feel it in the way the hairs on his arm stand up. He bites his lip and pulls away, leaving you wet and ready for more. Suddenly, he stuffs his finger inside your pussy, gently pumping it in and out making you dizzy. It's so pleasurable. You let out soft whimpers as his fingers hit that gushy spot that takes you out of this world, and you can't help it when you squirt on his hands. He almost stops but it's such a beautiful sight that he genuinely can't stop thrusting his fingers into you until you've probably squirted every juice left in your body. He just stares, amazed that your body could do that. His eyes twinkle with want.

Peter lifts his fingers to his mouth and gently sucks them clean.

He discards his boxers onto the floor, pushing his body between your thighs and rubbing his cock along your wet slit. His precum mixes with your juices tenderly before he pokes his tip in once, then twice, and a third time. His body hunches until your chests press together, his hands carefully rip his webs from your thighs. He wraps them around his waist and starts rocking his hips desperately into you. "I'm s-so glad you're not scared of me." He whines, his thrusts are a bit sloppy at first, he's still getting used to these heightened feelings. It's so not fair that he can feel every muscle inside of you clenching and clinging to his cock, it's wonderfully miserable for him. "I hear it- feel it- all." He whimpers in your ear and he grips your thighs, pounding your pussy like he personally owned it. (He didn't).

Your moans bonded together to create an intimate atmosphere, between the heavy breathing, the squelches of your hips meeting and Peter practically fucking your cervix right now- it was the best sex either of you have had your entire lives.

"You're so, so, so good. Thank you." He whines, he really can't control it, maybe it's a mix of human and arachnid hormones, he wasn't sure if it was even genetically possible it could enhance his sexual performance, but clearly, it seemed to be because his pace was unmatched. His brows furrowed, hyper-focused of fucking you until you couldn't leave his bed. In the back of his mind, maybe he'd web you up and keep you like his own mate. But rational, sweet Peter could never do that to a sweet girl like you.

"I'm close," you moaned. He nods, keeping this pace, but his brain is getting cloudy, by choices that aren't his own. Then- he just starts pounding harder, making you squeal. "Mmh! Peter!" Mate. A real one? Perhaps. When you squirm under his pistoning hips, you tried to slow him down, not that you didn't like it. He grabs your wrists and webs them to his headboard.

"Stay." He growls.

Good grief! Your eyebrows knit together, mouth gaping as he impossibly fucks you in a way no person should be able to. His hands slide beneath your ass, gripping it and angling it up slightly, eliciting a sweet whine from your throat as he hits your g-spot, and more. Your walls squeeze his cock so wonderfully, his eyes are clenched shut again, fighting an internal battle between his arachnid self, and regular Peter Parker. When his eyes flutter open, you're gazing back into voidless, black eyes that are taunting and controlling. When you cum, he groans loudly, still thrusting through your unbearable tightness.

And when he cums?

He moans, and moans; and normal Peter Parker would pull out, but arachnid Peter held you still as his cock released his thick load right against your womb. He pants, head hanging as sweat trickles down his cheek and his eyes daze back to normal, his cock is swollen inside of you, and he lets out a pathetic whine as your walls continue to clench and pulse against his dick. "Oh, I didn't mean to- fuck!" His voice cracks as your pussy walls trap him inside you when he tries to pull out of you.

"Holy shit." His eyes widened a little as his cock finally popped out, watching as his semen dripped out of you. They dart from your pussy, to your face. "You're so beautiful."

"Thank you..." You smile, blushing.

He moves up and kisses you.

It's gentle, the perfect post-sex kiss.

"Can you get these webs off me now, please?" You smirk.

"Oh, no. I think I'm gonna keep you like this for a while."

Everyone says you need to get back out there anyway, and he's cute... In an abandoned-puppy-at-a-shelter kind of way. He smiled weakly at passerbys, clutched his cup too tightly, like he's expecting someone to snatch it from him at any given moment. You straighten your posture, fix a dress you stole from your roommate, and muster up the courage to go over and speak to him. He looks distracted, and he is.

Peter's life is so scrambled, he doesn't know who or what he is anymore. He only came here to try and recollect what he'd lost four years ago. His best friends. Now he's not so sure, it's too crowded, and he feels everything too deeply now.

Then you came up.

His breath hitched, his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, backed up as if there was no more space behind him. "Hi." You simply stated.

"H-Hi?"

You give him your hand to shake, telling him your name. He just stands there. Stares at you blankly before his lips stutter out: "Peter." Wow, he hadn't told anyone his name in so long, it felt wrong. No one was supposed to know him, Peter's just another face in the crowd, a nobody to everybody.

"Nice to meet you, Peter." You smile.

"Y-You too." He hides his flush behind the cup as he practically chugs the rest.

"You okay?"

"Fine! I'm fine, I just came to give N-Ned and MJ a housewarming gift, I- I was gonna leave... I have a headache so..."

"Ohh, I see. Migraine?"

"Something like that." He murmurs. He shifts on his feet quietly, Peter's restless where he stands, his hands trembling at his sides. His head was pounding so hard, he could feel his brain shaking around and ricocheting against his skull. He can hear your heart beating, and he's not sure if he likes that or not.

You tilt your head, the alcohol's fogging your brain, and you just let loose. "Look, I think you're really cute." You say slowly, slightly slurred. "You want to get out of here?"

Peter stands as still as a statue. Get out of here. Go where? He didn't know you, couldn't take you home with him, his place isn't... 'Guest material.' That and the fact all of his tech is there, including clues that would reveal his identity as Spider-Man to you. Would a drunk girl go blabbering to J. Jonah Jameson like Mysterio had those years ago? He certainly hoped not! He couldn't afford to do that again. Not that he could, Strange wouldn't remember Peter anyways. "Sure." He shrugs.

The two of you make your way out of the apartment, to the elevator, then down. You loop your arm around Peter's which you notice is pretty muscular. He guides you quietly and calmly through the streets, he wasn't too sure on what you guys were doing, where you were going, but you were going. You don't think much of it, too giddy and tipsy for your own good. Most of the time you knew better than this, but hey! It's cool to get out of your comfort zone.

Hopefully this guy wasn't a killer.

Worse! He's a masked vigilante who saves the neighborhood.

Thankfully Peter's a good guy, he makes sure you cross the street safely, he keeps you close by to ensure your safety. Despite his inner battles that it was a bad idea, he brought you to his apartment complex. You hang patiently by his side as the elevator descends up.

He creaks the door open; his apartment is kind of sad. You pay no mind to the monitors or any of his technological stuff across the room. Instead? You skip over to the couch and flop down, letting out a content sigh. Peter watches you curiously. "Can I get you anything?" Not that he had much to offer, you shake your head.

"I'm okay. Thanks, Pete!" You smile. A smile. Something sweet and genuine that he hasn't seen in a while. A smile that isn't fake or laced with the sinking weight of guilt and pain and trauma of the past nine or ten years beating your ass every day. Peter gently sinks onto the couch next to your feet, he glances over as the skirt of your dress rides up your thighs, and he bites his inner lip. Genuinely, the second he sat down, you popped up and leaned near him. The alcohol is catching up slowly but surely as you inspect Peter. closely. He is cute.

"How old're you anyway?" You question.

"Um, 22. You?"

Not too young, not too old, is he just perfect? "Same: 22. What do you do for work?"

Ah shit. "Uh, I'm.. a student?"

"Where?"

"ESU..." He clears his throat, praying you'll believe his fib.

"Oh cool!" You exclaim, not interested enough to continue prying on his supposed education. "You single?"

He stops, just stares at his shoes. Is he? Technically, yes, mentally? He's not so sure. "Sort of."

"What does 'sort of' mean?" You chuckle.

"I had someone."

"Oh, nasty break up or something?"

"Or something."

"You know," you sigh, pressing against his side, "you're too cute to be alone like this. Do you even have friends?"

"No, I don't need them."

"Everyone needs friends! Hmm, okay, I'll be your new best friend!"

"You're drunk, you don't know what you're saying."

"Um, I know exactly what I'm saying. Or I wouldn't be saying it."

Can't argue with that logic.

"Do you ever get drunk?"

"I try not to." Bummer.

So he's cute, non-alcoholic and single. Win win, you move over, gently straddling his lap with your legs. Peter freezes, he hasn't had this kind of contact in who knows how long. Maybe never. He doesn't stop you when you lean in halfway, and he closes the distance by allowing your lips to meet and melt into a kiss, slowly deepening as the seconds pass. One of his hands rests at your waist, the other comes up to your cheek steadying himself as the two of you make out. It's passionate, heated, needy, and a bit sloppy as tongues intercept and teeth accidentally click against each other. Peter lets out a shaky exhale through his nose as you move against his lap, maybe it's just his newfound senses but he swore he could hear your heart thumping in your chest, he can practically feel your need in his own body.

His hand slides back into your hair, gently fisting it. Dammit, he was so screwed.

One thing seemed to lead to another, he found himself carrying you to his small bedroom, gently laying you on his bed as he tossed his coat on the floor with his shirt. You would've never guessed this shy guy was beautifully ripped. Your heart skips a beat. Peter senses the shift in your body, how your breath hitches, the flutter of your eyes, he's been able to feel things on a deeper level recently. Apparently he's developed heightened arachnid hormones. For him, it's been a struggle, but right now? It's an advantage over you. He assists you in taking off your dress, he kicks off his pants and tugs you to the edge of the bed, his boner pressing against your heat as he leans down to capture your lips once again. He'd hoped to get his mind stress-free, it seemed to be working because all of his duties as Spider-Man, the spell, the guilt, it all disappeared for the time being. His head fogged with desperation to get inside of you.

His mouth moves against yours as he snakes his hands under your back to get to your bra, unclasping and yanking it off. His eyes glisten, he licks his lips and bends down to press a kiss on both of your breasts. You left out a soft hum, toying with his curls around your finger as he sucks your tit, massaging the other with his large hand. He loses himself in your soft moans, enjoying the way your fingers thread through his hair. Only then does his head move across to the other, then trails down your tummy, stopping right above the waistband of your panties.

You huff, “C’mon… Please don’t stop.”

“What’s next is better. You trust me?” He bats his lashes.

"Only because I'm drunk." Peter cannot help but laugh. He sits up and pulls your panties down. He lets out a shaky breath when he sees your wetness. His index and middle finger lightly trace your pussy lips, making you shiver. Peter straightens himself, gently pushing his boxers down and lifting your legs on his hips. His eyes search yours, you look so beautiful like this, he almost forgets MJ completely.

He gently slides his tip along your wetness, making you whimper. He hated these new arachnid senses, everything was twice as intense. Jerking off was a fucking chore, he can’t believe he’s having sex when he’s like this, he's a monster. A monster who can absolutely ruin you sexually.

With one long, deep breath, he pushes himself inside you carefully, just the tip, for now. Peter's jaw clenches, the feeling is overwhelmingly euphoric. Your tightness is like heaven on Earth, he swallows. Gently he pulls out, then pushes back in- but only the tip, he wants to tease you.

Your moans escape, shaky and breathless and Peter extends this torture of teasing. He watches the way your pussy grips onto him as he pulls out; as if trying to keep him in and pull him deeper. It's oddly satisfying. At some point something snapped in Peter and he buried himself in you without warning, he wasn't sure what came over him but oh God did it practically kill him to have you like this, around him, squeezing him, making him see stars. He almost stopped entirely, it was so overwhelming to his entire nervous-system that he thought he might cry, not because it hurt– no, it felt fucking amazing. Because it felt too good. It's the best thing he's felt in four long years.

"You're okay?" He asks softly, leaning beside your ear as he finds his confidence in actual thrusts. You nod.

"I'm great." A smile spreads over your lips, as well as a small blush. Peter can't help but smile back, it's cute seeing your nose scrunch as you force a smile while he's ruining you. His hips continue to meet yours every other second, intently watching your expressions, trying to understand what makes you arch, what makes you moan louder, what truly pleases you. He's trying to ignore his senses, the way every movement feels like a tank running over every individual nerve in his body, how your sounds echo in his mind like someone is whacking his head with a metal bat. He isn't complaining, it's sexy knowing he has total control to make you have the best orgasm of your life because he senses what's good to you and what isn't.

When you don't whine or tighten on his cock, he angles differently, his body is on autopilot with the arachnid hormones, he's on a new level of weirdness. "Fuck," he whispers breathlessly near your ear before softly nipping it, making you gasp. "Sorry." He quickly murmurs, pressing completely against you as though he's trying to melt your bodies together. He starts fucking faster, it's diabolical.

"Fuck, fuck." He repeats it like a mantra trying to ground himself in the words as he physically cannot control himself anymore. It's like someone has him on puppet strings and is controlling his hips. Your hands come to his shoulders, brows knitted together with a sad puppyish expression that makes his cock twitch inside you. Finally, he hikes your legs a bit higher and breathing in, he starts fucking faster. Your brain fogs with pleasure, "Tell me if it's too much," he says softly, reminding you: he will stop if you want. He doesn't want to hurt you.

"Oh, my god, Pete, that's it." You moaned.

Something in Peter's brain lagged, like a broken computer. He smelt it, he could feel it under his fingertips, and around his dick, it's precious and it's dirty. You're close. Right now, his hips pistoned quicker, no one else could achieve this, only him. Because of what he is. You don't need to know that, he hopes you think he has really good stamina. Peter's fingers dig into your thighs as he grips them for balance, a sharp thrill runs up his spine because fuck he's close too. And with all of that: he blanks for a moment.

Your eyes had squished close when he started thrusting at this new pace, you almost tapped out. It's too much, but it's too good to give up. This is a train you can't get off of. Amidst the very moment you find yourself gasping for more, pleading Peter that he doesn't stop, your eyes open. His head is hung, sweat dotted on his forehead as his curls stick to his skin. His muscles flexed and abs tensed.

"Peter..." You whispered in a whiny tone.

"M-mhm??" His eyes flicker up to you.

"I'm gonna..." You trail off, with a moan because it's already happening before you can forewarn him. And holy shit, he wasn't expecting it- he groans as your cunt tightens impossibly around him. Every breath catches in his throat, and his stomach knots. "Oh my God." He pants.

You're overstimulated by the feelings, him pounding you through your orgasm, then... His face scrunches, he moans out, eyes snapping shut, his hip thrusts go sloppy and he whines when his own orgasm hits him. When his eyes open as he's thrusting his cum into you, you find yourself staring into pure black eyes, like his body had been possessed by something other-worldly, he doesn't even realize it. "P-Pete... Your eyes!"

"What?" He moans.

"Your eyes are black!"

“R-Right there,” you gasp, fingers curling into the fabric stretched across his shoulders as his cock sinks back inside you, thick enough to pull another breathless sound from your throat. The ridge of him drags against sensitive places you didn’t know you had until he started fucking them regularly.

The white lenses of his mask narrow slightly at the reaction, which still manages to bother you after four months of this because you have absolutely no idea how the damn things do that.

Four months of letting Spider-Man climb through your apartment window, and you still don’t know what he looks like underneath it.

You know he's somewhere around your age, know he lives in Queens, know he hates olives, and apparently carries condoms in one of the compartments built into his suit.

You know how his cock feels—know the way it twitches when you’re tight around him, how the veins along the shaft pulse against your walls, how the swollen tip presses deep enough to make your stomach flutter.

Priorities.

The mask has never come off—not when he kisses you through it, not when you’ve ridden him on this very couch, and certainly not when he’s buried between your thighs beneath the blanket, the covers pulled high enough to hide his face even after he rolls the mask up just far enough to free his mouth. You never get more than the faintest suggestion of skin before he disappears under there, leaving you with nothing but the pressure of his hands, the drag of his tongue, and your fingers curling uselessly into the covered shape of his head while he works you open.

You stopped asking about it weeks ago, mostly because anonymity turned out to be obscenely hot.

What you do know about him has accumulated in considerably less innocent ways…

You know patrol leaves him absurdly worked up, particularly on nights when he spends hours swinging through the city and arrives with restless energy still thrumming beneath his skin.

You know the head of his cock becomes flushed and painfully sensitive near orgasm, the slit wet and shiny, and that rubbing your thumb along the underside can make every muscle in his stomach tighten until he is shaking.

You know he likes your hand around his throat as long as your fingers stay below the mask, that slow oral turns his smart mouth into muffled little whines as he tries not to fuck up into your throat, and that whoever designed his suit clearly did not anticipate anyone spending this much time studying the shape of his erection through it.

You also know he is much bigger than you expected, which became painfully obvious during your first hookup when he eased into you on this same couch and both of you discovered halfway through that enthusiasm had caused a severe failure in practical judgment.

His name remains a mystery.

Maybe he’s Michael, David, Christopher, or some other perfectly ordinary twenty-something man who buys laundry detergent and forgets to charge his phone. Maybe his mother saddled him with something terrible. Maybe it really is something painfully average like Peter.

You have no idea, because the only version of him you know is Spider-Man, and Spider-Man is currently fucking you hard enough that the couch has started migrating several inches closer to the wall with every thrust.

“Somebody’s impatient tonight,” he murmurs through the mask, voice roughened beneath the fabric as he pulls nearly free before rolling his hips forward again.

Your nails scrape down his back when his cock fills you, the sudden stretch making your cunt clench greedily around the intrusion, and you mutter, “Somebody disappeared for five days,” while deliberately tightening around him.

He had been halfway through reminding you that he was busy saving New York when the squeeze steals the rest of his sentence, his masked head dropping toward your shoulder with a muffled groan as his cock twitches hard inside you.

“Congratulations,” you tease, dragging your hands down to his waist as he starts fucking you harder, the wet slap of his hips against yours louder now. “You want a medal?” His fingers tighten around your thigh in response.

You open your mouth to tease more when his free hand slips between your bodies and finds your clit, wiping the amusement from your face almost immediately. Two fingers part your folds so his gloved thumb can press directly against the swollen, slick little nub, circling with slow pressure while his cock keeps driving into you.

He has unfair advantages in bed. He can keep your leg folded nearly against your chest without tiring, hold your entire weight as though it means nothing, and whatever enhanced senses come bundled with the wall-crawling nonsense supposedly make it impossible to hide when you’re getting close.

His thumb works slow circles against you while his hips continue pushing deep between your thighs, and you can practically feel the smugness radiating from behind the mask when your breathing starts coming faster. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your jaw, increasing the pressure of his thumb as your hips lift helplessly into him. “I can tell you’re close.”

You manage to call him a show-off before another thrust punches the rest of the insult out of you, earning a breathless laugh against your neck.

Your fingers eventually wander toward the seam beneath his jaw, brushing beneath the very edge of the mask without actually lifting it, and his entire body tenses above you.

His cock twitches inside you hard enough to make your brows rise. “You like this stupid mask way too much,” he groans, catching your wrist loosely without removing your hand.

It feels filthy about knowing this much of somebody while knowing almost nothing at all; he has watched you come, has had his mouth on you, and could still pass you tomorrow on the sidewalk without you recognizing him.

“You’re the one fucking me without telling me your name,” you remind him, tracing the mask’s edge again until another twitch gives him away. He mutters something about secret identities, and your smile grows when you ask, “Maybe you’re ugly.”

Spider-Man actually stops thrusting.

The offended silence radiating from him makes you bite your lip, especially when he finally insists, “I am not ugly,” with enough conviction to make you laugh beneath him.

You point out that you’ve been given absolutely no evidence, and he begins arguing that there is plenty before you casually tell him his mom’s opinion doesn’t count.

“My aunt would—” The words die underneath the mask as his body stills again, and your smile spreads when he realizes what he has just said.

“You don’t know anything,” he mutters suspiciously, tightening his grip on your thigh when you tell him that you do now.

Apparently being tricked into revealing personal information while balls-deep inside someone is where Spider-Man draws the line, because he accuses you of interrogating him during sex while you wrap your ankle tighter behind his back and point out that it worked perfectly well.

The next thrust wipes the smugness from your face. His hips drive harder between your thighs, couch springs squeaking underneath both of you while the frame bumps rhythmically against the wall, and whatever irritation you managed to spark apparently convinces him that your security deposit is no longer his concern.

His thumb returns to your clit as his masked face presses beside yours, every deep stroke making your body shift farther into the cushions until your hands have nowhere to settle except around his shoulders.

You probably ought to care more about who he is underneath there, but it becomes increasingly difficult to worry about secret identities when the anonymous superhero in your living room has memorized exactly how to make your legs shake—how hard to press your clit, how deep to fuck you, how to angle his hips so the thick ridge of his cockhead keeps catching that same perfect spot.

When your cunt tightens around him again, the groan that leaves him sounds almost helpless. “Jesus,” he chokes against your neck, his rhythm finally losing some of its practiced control as you squeeze harder.

Your own orgasm makes answering impossible, pleasure rolling through you until your thighs clamp around his waist and your nails dig into his shoulders. He keeps moving through it, fucking you steadily while your body clenches around him, though every contraction drags another strained sound from underneath his mask until his hips eventually falter too.

He buries himself deep as he comes into the condom, forehead sinking against your shoulder while the hand beneath your thigh squeezes hard enough to remind you exactly how much strength he normally keeps tucked away.

The couch finally stops knocking against the wall once his body settles over yours, although the silence lasts until two heavy bangs rise from your downstairs neighbor’s ceiling.

Your laugh comes out against the side of his mask, and he slowly lifts his head as though personally betrayed by both you and the building. “Don’t,” he warns, still catching his breath as your laughter gets worse, and when he complains that he hates your apartment, you remind him that he says the same thing every week without ever actually staying away.

His eyes—or lenses, technically—drift toward the window when you ask whether he’s leaving, then return to you as his cock gives a faint twitch inside you, softening and sensitive, nestled deep in the wet heat of your cunt. “No,” he admits, settling more comfortably between your legs as your fingers lazily trace the spider stretched across his chest.

But soon, he’ll slip through your window without showing you so much as the corner of his face, leaving you to spend another day wondering whether you’ve passed him on the street, stood beside him in a coffee shop, or squeezed onto the same subway car without realizing it. Then, sometime after midnight, three familiar taps will land against your glass again, and you’ll open the window for Spider-Man exactly as you always do.

Whoever the hell he is underneath the mask can stay a mystery.

You’ve already learned the important parts.

© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.

His bright blue eyes snapped open to see you pouting at him, hands over your already very sore breasts that he had painfully squeezed against his side. "Oh" he frowned, understanding. "It's that week, isn't it?"

You nodded slowly, letting Satoru manoeuvre you on your back so he could rest on his elbow next to you. When you first found out he was tracking your cycle you did call him a freak, but to be honest, it was worth it with how gentle he was with you now.

"Is it really bad?" he asked, tracing soft lines over your collarbone with his free hand. His touch was feather light, his hand apologising to your tender skin.

"It hurts" you exhaled, letting your head sink into the pillow with a long sigh. "They feel heavy"

"Heavy?" Satoru echoed, very obviously looking down to your chest. Naturally, you pinched him. "Ow! What was that for?"

"I'm in pain and you want to check if they're bigger?!" you growled, ready to throw a pillow right on his stupid white hair.

"No no no, you know I think they’re perfect” Satoru apologised immediately, peppering kisses all over your face. "It was for science only"

"Sure" you rolled your eyes, but you couldn't keep the angry act for long, not with your boyfriend's puppy dog eyes so close to your face.

"I mean it, I only want to help" he said, sitting up. And you did believe him – your boyfriend had been trying his best since he figured out how difficult pms was for you.

Last month, he even bought you a personalised hot water bottle with both your initials on it. Baby blue, of course.

You weren't sure who else would be confusing their hot water bottle for yours anyway, but its the gesture that counts.

"Come here baby, I'll help you up" he called to you with wide open arms, but as soon as he started to pull you up, you groaned again. "Is it that bad?" he grimaced, seeing your hands go back to holding onto your sore breasts.

Unfortunately, it was.

"It's ok" you tried to deflect, feeling bad for how worried he seemed. "You don't have to worry about m–"

"None of that" Satoru pouted. "Does that help?" he nodded to your hands, clearly some sort of plan starting to form in that head of his.

"Kind of" you replied, massaging yourself. "Should probably put on a bra" you sighed.

"In bed?!" Satoru shook his messy white hair side to side. "It's unfair" he completed solemnly. And you agreed with him.

But then he opened up his mouth again, with that tone he employed when he was going to suggest something... unusual.

"Why don't you...let me help?"

That made you stop halfway, turning up to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"Just… come here" he said, extending those pale fingers to you. You had one raised eyebrow, but let him do what he had intended – and soon his large palms were closing around your breasts.

"Pervert" you deadpanned.

"You said it helped!" he argued.

You took a moment, considering. You were very used to your boyfriend touching you everywhere, of course, but you had never seen him look so commited about it. It was almost endearing, in a kind of, um, odd way.

"So, what, you'll just be my personal bra today?" you teased.

"If you want me to" he nodded.

"Aren't your arms getting tired?" you narrowed your eyes at him.

"Baby, this is what I train for" he replied smugly.

You let out a little laugh, enjoying your boyfriend's silly plan and how serious he was about it. "You can't possibly keep this up" you joked.

"Wanna bet?"

You shouldn't have said yes. But of course you did.

The rest of the day was spent with Satoru glued to you – more so than usual. "You're enjoying this" you poked him as he stood with his chin on top of your head and his hands right where he promised they'd be, watching you make your morning coffee.

"You wound me, princess" he pretended to sigh. "This is for your own good"

Sure it was.

Later you sat down to watch TV, and Satoru placed you right on his lap, before his hands returned to your chest. "You're ridiculous" you laughed, his chin heavy on your shoulder this time and your back to his chest.

"Is it helping?" he asked.

In truth, it was. He was warm and soft and much more comfortable than a real bra; and walking around like you had been cursed into attachment was lifting your mood as much as it was annoying you too.

His eccentric ways were just one of the things you loved about your boyfriend, after all.

Of course, this all got a bit too ridiculous when you announced you were going to shower, and got followed by the white haired giant all the way into the bathroom. "You can't be serious" you looked up at him.

"I only want to hel–Ow! Ok, I'll be outside"

You laughed, seeing his pout as he closed the door behind him. It was adorable how devoted he was to this stupid plan – and you also couldn't deny you missed his loving touch as soon as he had let go of you.

Maybe he could help you shower too. He only wanted you to feel better, right?

"Satoru" you called, not even surprised when the door opened before you had even finished saying his name.

"Need me?" he grinned from ear to ear.

You would have pinched him again if he wasn't so damn adorable.

my boobs feel like they're about to explode and this is what came of it I don't know what else to say

permatags @madamechrissy @mercipourleveninx @septembermoonchild @plaguecxlt @nanamitiddiechomper @kekeanna266 @amazedfor @dogggggggblog-kaye @literallyadarling @dawnsoblivion @chewiebee @iquitfindingausername @valberryboos @pwd54gr54 @raendarkfaerie @bbfawns @itimisu @sapph22 @bornafairy @sukunahs @hatchus2 @sukubusss @pawwwginaaa @b-bitter

Frank had never liked hospitals.

It wasn’t the smell. Most people complained about the antiseptic that clung stubbornly to every wall, every sheet, every article of clothing that spent more than an hour inside the building. To him, it had never been that. Hospitals smelled of people fighting to stay alive, of blood hidden beneath disinfectant, of exhaustion carried by doctors who had long forgotten what a full night’s sleep felt like, and of families waiting outside operating rooms with the desperate hope that a pair of swinging doors would open to deliver good news instead of condolences. He had spent enough hours sitting in those hallways throughout his life to know that hope and grief often shared the same chair.

The dull ache radiating from his ribs reminded him where he was before his eyes had even fully opened. He remained motionless for a few seconds, staring at the pale ceiling while his mind slowly pieced together the fragmented memories that had followed the gunshot. 

Jean Grey. Parker throwing himself into the line of fire before anyone could react. The deafening crack of his sniper echoing through the street. Blood spreading far too quickly across the kid’s suit. Then shouting. Sirens. Someone forcing him to sit down because he looked ready to collapse despite insisting he was fine. After that, little more than scattered moments interrupted by fatigue, until sleep had claimed him without asking for permission.

His gaze drifted instinctively toward the second bed.

Peter hadn’t moved.

The machines surrounding him continued their steady rhythm, indifferent to the panic that had consumed everyone only a handful of hours earlier. Bandages disappeared beneath the hospital gown, fresh gauze wrapped tightly around the wound in his shoulder, and the faint rise and fall of his chest was enough to tell Frank the boy was still breathing. 

Alive.

The word should have brought relief. Instead, it settled somewhere beneath his ribs with an uncomfortable heaviness that refused to leave. He had pulled the trigger with complete certainty. Years of experience had taught him exactly when to fire, exactly where the bullet would land. Except this time, someone faster, younger, and far more reckless had stepped between him and the target.

Peter Parker had taken a bullet meant for someone else.

For the first time in years, Frank had missed. Not just in the shot, but also in the intention. He did everything wrong, all wrong again.

The quiet click of the door interrupted the thought before it could circle back into the familiar territory of blame. His head turned almost automatically, and every muscle in his body tensed out of habit before recognition replaced instinct.

You stepped into the room without noticing he was awake.

A clipboard rested against your hip, several loose reports tucked beneath your arm, and the stethoscope hanging around your neck shifted gently as you crossed the room with the purposeful stride of someone who had repeated the same routine countless times throughout the night. The white coat you wore had acquired the inevitable wrinkles that came after too many uninterrupted hours on duty, and faint shadows rested beneath your eyes despite the composure you carried with effortless familiarity. You looked tired. Not unusually so—not in the dramatic way exhaustion is often described—but in the quiet, ordinary manner that belonged to doctors who had spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours choosing which emergencies demanded their attention first.

You hadn’t changed as much as he thought you would.

Or perhaps you had, and he simply remembered you too well to notice.

Months had passed since the last time he’d seen you. Long enough for seasons to change, for addresses to become obsolete, for bruises to heal and new scars to replace the old ones. Long enough for him to convince himself that disappearing had been the right decision. That cutting every line connecting him to you before someone else could do it with bullets or threats or a body left in an alley was the closest thing to mercy a man like him could offer. He had repeated that justification often enough that, eventually, it stopped sounding like an excuse and began resembling something dangerously close to the truth.

Until he’d needed you.

The memory returned with humiliating clarity. His thumb lingering over your contact information longer than it should have.

Wondering whether the number would still belong to you.

Wondering whether you’d answer. 

Wondering whether you should.

Wondering.

He had expected anger or silence. Perhaps even the call ending the moment you recognized his voice. Instead, after the second ring, you had simply answered.

“Frank.”

Not surprised, not cold… not warm, either.

You had spoken his name with the calm neutrality of someone waiting for him to explain why a ghost had suddenly remembered the living.

He hadn’t known how to begin.

There were apologies that had remained trapped somewhere behind his teeth for months, explanations he’d rehearsed during sleepless nights inside abandoned apartments, reasons that had sounded convincing until the exact moment he heard your voice again. Every single one of them disappeared beneath the weight of something infinitely more urgent.

“Need your help.”

That was all he’d managed.

No greeting. No apology. No attempt to soften the request after vanishing without a word.

Just the truth.

Need your help.

You hadn’t asked where he’d been or demanded an explanation.

You hadn’t reminded him that months earlier he’d walked away believing he was protecting you by making the decision for both of you.

There had only been the brief sound of pages turning on your end of the line before your voice returned with the same composure that had always made him think of operating rooms rather than conversations.

“Which hospital?”

Nothing more.

Looking at you now, quietly reviewing Peter’s chart while comparing it against the monitor beside his bed, Frank realized he had known the answer before he’d even made the call. He hadn’t reached out because you were simply one of the best trauma surgeons in New York. He had called because, somewhere beneath all the stubbornness that had convinced him staying away was the right thing to do, there had remained one certainty he had never questioned.

If someone’s life depended on you...

You would come.

You always did.

You moved around Peter’s bedside with the same concentration that had once fascinated him enough to keep him awake through entire nights simply watching you work. Your fingers adjusted the IV line almost absentmindedly while your eyes remained fixed on the monitor, mentally comparing numbers before jotting down another note on the chart. Then came the stethoscope, the careful examination of the dressing beneath his shoulder, the practiced movement of lifting the blanket just enough to inspect the surgical site without disturbing him any more than necessary. Every gesture blended seamlessly into the next, neither rushed nor unnecessarily delicate, as though your body had long since learned a language your conscious mind no longer needed to translate.

Frank remembered those hands differently.

They had stitched bullet wounds while arguing with him over whether he needed anesthesia. 

Pressed against his jaw when nightmares left him too disoriented to distinguish memory from reality.

Wrapped around paper cups of terrible coffee during mornings neither of you admitted you hadn’t slept.

Curled lazily against his chest while rain battered apartment windows neither of you planned on staying in for more than a week.

He remembered every scar decorating your fingers.

He wondered whether you remembered his.

Only after finishing your examination did you finally look up from the chart, intending to leave the room before your eyes settled on him.

For the first time since answering that phone call...

You realized he was awake.

Frank didn’t realize he was staring until you finally lowered the clipboard.

The silence that settled inside the room wasn’t uncomfortable, though it carried the unmistakable weight of two people who had spent months apart with far too many conversations left unfinished. You glanced over Peter’s latest bloodwork one last time before slipping the chart back into its place at the foot of the bed, your eyes lingering on the unconscious young man for another second, almost as if reassuring yourself that nothing had changed during the few minutes you’d spent inside. Only then did you turn fully toward Frank.

“You’ve been awake for long?” Your voice hadn’t changed.

It still carried that same quiet steadiness capable of filling a room without ever becoming loud, the same tone that had once calmed frightened patients, exhausted residents, and, on more than one occasion, an injured vigilante stubborn enough to insist he didn’t need stitches while actively bleeding onto your apartment floor.

Frank shook his head once. “Couple minutes.”

You nodded absentmindedly, accepting the answer without further questions before your gaze drifted almost instinctively toward the monitor attached to him. His pulse had risen slightly since waking, though not enough to concern you. Habit more than worry guided your steps toward his bedside, your fingers wrapping around his wrist for a brief moment while comparing the pulse beneath your fingertips to the numbers displayed on the screen.

“You shouldn’t be sitting up too quickly,” you murmured, more doctor than anything else. “You have three cracked ribs.”

“...Had worse.”

“I know,” there wasn’t the slightest trace of amusement in your reply.

You simply knew.

The words settled between you with surprising ease, carrying the familiarity of a truth neither of you had ever needed to explain. There had been too many nights spent removing bullets, stitching knife wounds, resetting fingers and shoulders after fights that should have ended very differently. Three cracked ribs barely deserved a place on the list.

Frank watched you as you finished checking his vitals, realizing with uncomfortable clarity how natural all of this still felt. Months had passed since he’d walked away without giving you the chance to argue with his decision, yet here you were, adjusting the blanket over his legs with the same absent-minded gesture you’d performed dozens of times before, as though your body remembered habits your heart had every right to abandon.

His jaw tightened. “...You saved him.”

You looked back toward Peter. “I operated on him.”

“Saved him.”

A small sigh escaped through your nose. “It wasn’t just me.”

“It was.”

You remained quiet for a moment, not because you agreed, but because you had never cared much for praise after surgery. Frank remembered that well enough. He remembered residents trying to congratulate you after impossible operations only to receive the same answer every time—that medicine wasn’t something anyone accomplished alone. Nurses, anesthesiologists, technicians, residents... every person inside that operating room mattered.

You had never liked carrying victories that belonged to an entire team.

“He was lucky,” you finally replied.

Frank let out a humorless breath. “...Luck had nothin’ to do with it.”

Your eyes found his again. “No?”

“No,” he held your gaze for several seconds before lowering it toward his own hands. “I pulled the trigger.”

The admission came quietly.

Matter-of-fact.

There was no attempt to soften it or shift responsibility elsewhere. He had replayed the scene often enough since arriving at the hospital that every second had become painfully familiar. The angle. The distance. Jean Grey’s movement. Peter throwing himself forward. The recoil against his shoulder.

One decision. One mistake.

One kid lying unconscious because Frank Castle had failed to account for someone else’s instinct to save people.

“I know,” your answer arrived without hesitation.

Not accusing or forgiving. Simply acknowledging reality.

Frank rubbed a hand across his face before letting out a tired exhale. “...Kid almost died ’cause of me.”

“He almost died because he made a choice.”

His head lifted.

You hadn’t moved.

Your posture remained relaxed, both hands tucked into the pockets of your coat as you looked at Peter rather than him.

“You didn’t intend to shoot Peter.”

“...Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to him,” you said.

Frank frowned. 

“You know as well as I do that Peter would make the exact same decision again tomorrow.”

That earned the faintest snort from him. “...Yeah.”

“And the day after.”

“...Yeah.”

“And probably every day after that.”

Despite himself, the corner of Frank’s mouth twitched for barely a second before disappearing again. “...Kid’s got somethin’ wrong with him.”

A barely perceptible smile crossed your face. “I’ve been saying that for years.”

The room fell quiet again, though lighter than before. Not because either of you had forgotten why you were there, but because Peter Parker possessed that peculiar ability to make even the bleakest situations sound almost absurd when spoken aloud.

Frank looked at you again. This time, the weight in his chest had very little to do with Peter. “...Shouldn’t’ve called.”

You blinked once. “What?”

His eyes remained fixed somewhere beyond your shoulder. “...Should’ve left y’outta this.”

There it was.

Not an apology. Frank Castle rarely knew how to apologize directly.

Instead, guilt surfaced sideways, disguised as practical statements that somehow managed to reveal far more than he’d ever intended.

“You disappeared,” you answered quietly, your voice neither sharp nor wounded, merely factual. “Then months later you called because someone needed help,” he didn’t answer. “I would’ve come regardless of who was on the other end of that phone.”

“...I know.”

“But…” Your sentence faded before it truly began.

Frank looked back at you, noticing for the first time that exhaustion wasn’t the only thing shadowing your features. There was something else there, something quieter, carefully restrained beneath the same professionalism you’d carried since entering the room.

“...But it was you.”

Neither of you spoke.

There wasn’t much left to add. Because that was precisely the part neither of you had managed to outrun.

Frank had convinced himself that leaving was an act of protection.

You had never tried to stop him.

Yet when he finally reached for you again, you had answered before asking a single question. The realization sat heavily between you, too complicated to untangle inside a hospital room where another man’s heartbeat continued its steady rhythm only a few feet away.

Frank shifted toward the edge of the bed before planting both feet carefully against the floor. The movement pulled sharply at the bruises along his ribs, forcing him to grit his teeth, but remaining in bed while talking to you suddenly felt wrong. He pushed himself upright despite the dull protest radiating through his side, one hand instinctively gripping the metal railing until the dizziness passed.

You took half a step forward. “Frank—”

“’M alright.”

“You’ve been unconscious for hours.”

“’M still standin’.”

“You are,” you agreed, watching the faint tension around his jaw betray just how much the movement had hurt, “but that doesn’t mean it was a good idea.”

He ignored the remark, taking another slow step until barely a couple of feet separated the two of you. Standing now, the difference in height returned so naturally it almost felt cruel after months apart. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed something as ordinary as looking down at you.

Neither of you noticed the subtle change in the room until a hoarse voice, rough with anesthesia and sleep, broke the silence.

“...You know…”

Both heads turned at once.

Peter’s face twisted into a pained grimace as his eyelids fluttered open, squinting against the brightness above him before his unfocused gaze drifted lazily between the two of you.

“...If... this is... your way…” He swallowed, wincing immediately afterward. “...of getting back together…” Another shallow breath. “...I’m gonna be... really offended…”

For the first time since waking, Frank let out something dangerously close to an actual laugh. It lasted barely a second, rough and disbelieving, disappearing almost as quickly as it had come.

“...Kid…” he muttered, shaking his head. “...You’re... unbelievably dramatic.”

Peter managed the weakest grin imaginable. “...Says... the guy... who shot me…”

Peter’s eyes never stayed open for very long before another wince betrayed exactly how much the anesthesia was beginning to wear off. The pain hadn’t fully settled in yet—that much you could tell from the way he still found enough energy to smile through it—but it was coming, slow and inevitable, replacing the comforting numbness left behind by surgery. His pulse climbed a few beats on the monitor, his breathing became fractionally shallower, and before either of the men in the room could say another word, your attention shifted entirely back to your patient.

Professional habit had always outweighed everything else.

You crossed the small distance separating you from the bed, the teasing smile Peter’s comment had drawn from you disappearing into the quiet concentration Frank remembered so well. Your fingers found Peter’s wrist first, counting almost absentmindedly while your other hand reached for the monitor to silence the brief warning that had accompanied the change in his heart rate. Only once you seemed satisfied did you rest your palm lightly against his shoulder, careful to avoid the fresh dressing covering the wound.

“Easy,” you said softly. “You just woke up after major surgery. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try proving you’re indestructible during the first five minutes.”

Peter blinked several times, his expression still clouded by medication before recognition finally settled in. “...Doc.”

“You remembered me. That’s encouraging.”

“I remember…” He frowned thoughtfully, clearly trying to organize his memories. “...there was a lot of yelling.”

“There usually is when someone gets shot.”

“...Fair.”

You couldn’t help smiling.

Frank watched the exchange in silence.

It struck him almost immediately that you spoke differently to Peter than you ever had to him. Not because you were treating him like a child—God knew Peter Parker would hate that—but because your voice carried an ease that belonged to someone accustomed to calming frightened patients without making them feel fragile. You never lied to them. You simply had a way of delivering the truth that somehow left enough room for people to breathe.

Peter shifted slightly before immediately regretting it, a sharp hiss escaping through clenched teeth. “...Okay... yeah…” he muttered, abandoning the movement altogether. “...Turns out getting shot really hurts.”

“I did warn you against trying it,” you said.

“I wasn’t exactly planning on making it a hobby,” Peter said.

Frank snorted quietly. “...Could’ve fooled me.”

Peter looked toward him with exaggerated offense despite the obvious discomfort pulling at every movement. “I was saving your grumpy old self. Saving New York and Jean too!”

“...Didn’t ask.”

“No, but I feel like deep down you’re grateful.”

“I ain’t.”

“You are.”

“I ain’t.”

Peter turned toward you with the air of someone seeking professional validation. “...Doc, can you check if emotional repression is a side effect of being sixty?”

Frank’s head snapped toward him. “...I’m forty somethin’.”

“Oh,” Peter nodded solemnly. “My mistake,” a brief pause. “...You complain like you’re sixty.”

The expression that crossed Frank’s face was so profoundly unimpressed that you had to lower your head for a moment, pretending to check Peter’s IV while unsuccessfully hiding the smile tugging at your lips.

“...You’re both impossible,” you murmured.

“I like her,” Peter informed Frank matter-of-factly.

“...Didn’t ask you.”

“I know,”  Peter smiled wider. “I just enjoy telling you things.”

Frank let out a long breath through his nose that sounded suspiciously like the beginning of a sigh, though whether it came from annoyance or reluctant amusement was difficult to tell.

While the two continued staring at one another with the stubbornness of men separated by nearly three decades and united by an equally questionable tendency toward self-sacrifice, you quietly reached for the clipboard resting at the foot of Peter’s bed and flipped through several pages before handing it to him.

“Before you start worrying,” you said, already anticipating the question forming behind his eyes, “there’s something you should know.”

Peter looked down at the paperwork with visible confusion. “...Should I be scared?”

“No,” you said.

“...That’s usually what people say right before giving me bad news.”

“You don’t have any medical records here.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“I erased them.”

Frank’s attention shifted toward you immediately.

Peter stared at you for several long seconds before looking back at the folder in his hands, flipping through it despite the obvious discomfort in his shoulder. Every page carried the same generic information: unidentified male, approximate age, emergency surgical intervention, no identifying features beyond the details absolutely necessary for postoperative care.

No name.

No fingerprints.

No DNA samples.

Nothing that could ever connect Spider-Man to Peter Parker.

“I also made sure every nurse assigned to this floor signed confidentiality agreements under a completely different case number,” you continued, your tone so matter-of-fact one would’ve thought you were discussing tomorrow’s weather. “Your blood samples were destroyed after the necessary testing, radiology archived under an anonymous emergency file, and the operating room logs were rewritten before they ever reached the hospital database.”

Peter looked at you as though you’d casually announced you’d reorganized Manhattan over lunch. “...You... did all that?”

You gave a small shrug. “It seemed easier than letting the government discover Spider-Man’s civilian identity.”

“...Easier.”

“Mhm,” you nod.

“...Your definition of easier is terrifying.”

Frank folded his arms. “...How the hell d’you even know how t’do all that?”

Your eyes shifted toward him, and for the first time since entering the room, genuine amusement settled across your features. “I’ve had practice.”

Frank frowned. “Practice.”

You nodded once. “It wasn’t exactly the first masked vigilante I’ve had to patch up.”

There was enough innocence in your voice that anyone unfamiliar with you might’ve believed the remark accidental.

Frank knew better.

Peter, unfortunately for him, understood immediately.

“...Wait,” Peter said, his eyes lighting up despite the lingering effects of the anesthesia. “You’re talking about—”

“Daredevil,” you said, smiling. Oh yeah, smiling.

Frank’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Peter’s gaze bounced enthusiastically between the two of you.

“...Hold on,” another pause. “...The Daredevil?”

You nodded. “For quite a while.”

Peter looked positively delighted. “...This just became the coolest hospital stay of my life.”

Frank muttered something under his breath. “...Jesus Christ.”

Peter ignored him entirely. “So... he was your patient?”

“For years.”

“...And?” 

“And what?” You couldn’t help but smile at Peter’s enthusiasm.

Peter grinned. “...That’s definitely not the whole story.”

You hesitated just long enough for Frank to know exactly where the conversation was heading. “...We dated.”

Silence lasted perhaps half a second.

Then Peter’s eyes widened with theatrical excitement.

“No way!”

Frank closed his eyes. “...Kid.”

“So you dated Daredevil…” Peter continued, clearly having discovered today’s favorite subject. “”...and now you’re—”

“We’re not discussing my personal life while you’re recovering from surgery.”

Peter looked almost offended. “I think discussing your personal life is helping my recovery.”

“...It isn’t.”

“It really is!”

You shook your head with an exasperated smile that Frank remembered all too well, one reserved almost exclusively for stubborn men convinced they were charming.

Peter tilted his head toward Frank with exaggerated subtlety. “I think somebody looks jealous.”

Frank actually laughed this time, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “...Jealous.”

“A little.”

“I ain’t jealous.”

Peter looked at you. “He sounds jealous.”

“He does,” you admitted with infuriating calm.

“I ain’t.”

“You’ve denied it three times already,” Peter pointed out.

“...Means you’re lyin’.”

You nodded thoughtfully, joining the conspiracy with far more ease than Frank appreciated.

“Statistically speaking,” you said, folding your arms with mock professionalism, “patients who repeat the same denial multiple times tend to be compensating for something.”

Peter gasped dramatically. “Oh my God.”

You looked at him. “What?”

“You just diagnosed him with jealousy,” he said, dramatically.

“I did no such thing.”

“You absolutely did.”

Frank looked from one of you to the other, his expression flattening with every passing second as the realization settled that, somehow, despite one of you having been unconscious less than five minutes ago, the two of you had already formed an alliance against him.

“...Y’know,” Frank muttered, shaking his head as he looked toward the ceiling, “startin’ t’think lettin’ the kid sleep was the better option.”

Peter’s grin widened immediately. “See?” He looked triumphantly at you. “That’s his coping mechanism.”

You smiled—small, genuine, impossible to miss. “I know.”

And somehow, though Frank would have denied it under oath, hearing you say those two simple words hurt far less than it should have. Because beneath the teasing, beneath Peter’s relentless commentary and your quiet amusement, lingered the unmistakable reminder that, despite the months he’d spent trying to convince himself otherwise, there were still parts of him you knew by heart.

Peter remained awake for another twenty minutes, though “awake” was perhaps too generous a word for someone whose sentences grew increasingly incoherent each time the medication pulled at his consciousness. You stayed long enough to adjust his pain medication after he finally admitted—under considerable dramatic protest—that perhaps getting shot had, indeed, been a terrible experience. The complaint earned him nothing more than a raised eyebrow and the reminder that most people reached that conclusion before the bullet, not after it. He insisted the distinction was important. You informed him it wasn’t. Frank watched the exchange from the chair he’d reluctantly occupied again, saying little beyond the occasional dry remark whenever Peter’s teasing wandered too close to provoking another argument.

Eventually, however, the medication won.

Peter’s eyelids grew heavier with every passing minute until even maintaining a conversation demanded more effort than he was willing to spend. His words began to blur together, his thoughts drifting somewhere between consciousness and sleep, and when you finally noticed him answering questions with little more than sleepy hums, you smiled almost to yourself before pulling the blanket a little higher over his chest.

The kid, as Frank told him, deserved to rest. Not just for carrying New York on his shoulders, but because he really seemed to need a break after… so much. You didn’t quite know what happened, who this Jean Grey was, but you knew Peter Parker needed help, needed someone to watch his back. You were glad Frank was there, even though he was partly to blame for Spider-Man almost dying hours before.

At least the drawings and stuffed animals served to remind Spider-Man that there were people waiting for him to recover, and that there were also people who wanted Peter Parker to be okay too.

“I’ll be back in a little while,” you said quietly. “Try not to move your shoulder.”

Peter barely cracked one eye open. “...No promises…”

“I know.”

“...But... I’ll... consider it…” Peter said.

“You do that.”

His mouth curved into the faintest grin before sleep reclaimed him entirely.

You waited another few seconds, watching the steady rhythm of the monitor settle once more into reassuring regularity before making a small note on his chart. Only after confirming that everything remained exactly as it should did you close the folder and glance toward Frank.

“He’ll sleep for a while.”

Frank nodded.

You hesitated for barely a moment before continuing. “You two probably have things to talk about.”

He understood what you meant immediately.

Peter deserved the truth.

Not today—not while the anesthesia still clouded his thoughts—but eventually. About Jean Grey. About the shot. About the guilt Frank had been carrying ever since watching the boy collapse in front of him.

“...Yeah.”

“I’ll give you some privacy.”

Without waiting for an answer, you stepped quietly out of the room, allowing the door to close behind you with little more than a muted click.

By the time you returned almost forty minutes later, the hallway outside had grown noticeably quieter.

Night had settled fully over the city, leaving only the soft glow of Manhattan filtering through the hospital windows while the floor gradually surrendered to the peculiar calm that only arrived after visiting hours ended. Somewhere in the distance, a nurse laughed quietly at something another doctor had said before the sound disappeared just as quickly, swallowed by walls that had heard thousands of similar conversations over the years. 

There were still people outside the hospital hoping Spider-Man would get better. Mostly adults, because the children were forced to leave their hero’s watch.

You pushed the door open carrying a fresh chart beneath one arm.

Peter was asleep again. This time deeply.

His breathing had evened out, the tension that pain had carved into his features finally beginning to loosen beneath the effects of medication. You approached automatically, checking the surgical dressing for any signs of fresh bleeding before reviewing the monitor once more. Blood pressure stable. Oxygen saturation normal. Heart rate slower now, no longer racing against the lingering adrenaline of waking after surgery.

Satisfied, you quietly scribbled another note across the chart.

“He’s doing well,” the words left your mouth almost absentmindedly before you realized Frank hadn’t answered.

You looked up.

He was standing.

Not beside his own bed anymore. Not near Peter’s either.

He had moved closer to the window sometime while you were gone, though judging by the stiffness in his posture, every step had probably cost him more pain than he cared to admit. One hand rested inside the pocket of the gray hospital sweatpants someone had convinced him to wear, while the other remained loosely folded across his ribs. Outside, rain had begun falling again, blurring the lights beyond the glass into streaks of gold and white. It was clear that Frank’s gaze was fixed on the people who were beginning to disperse, people who wanted to wait for Spider-Man to be alright, but the rain demanded a break.

For a brief second neither of you spoke.

Then he turned toward you. “...He asleep?”

You glanced once more toward Peter before nodding. “For the night, hopefully.”

“...Good.”

The room fell quiet again. Not because there was nothing to say, quite the opposite.

The silence existed because both of you understood that, for the first time since he’d called you, there were no patients demanding your attention, no interruptions waiting to rescue either of you from the conversation you’d both been quietly avoiding since the moment you stepped into the hospital.

You closed Peter’s chart before placing it gently at the foot of the bed.

“I should let you rest too.”

You had barely taken a step toward the door when his voice stopped you.

“...Don’t.”

It wasn’t loud.

Frank never needed volume to command attention.

You turned back. He hadn’t moved.

His eyes remained fixed on you with an expression you couldn’t immediately place, something caught somewhere between hesitation and determination, as though speaking suddenly required far more courage than facing armed men ever had.

“...Stay.”

You looked at him for several long seconds before quietly walking away from the door.

The distance between you wasn’t large. It only felt that way.

“You wanted to talk,” it wasn’t a question.

Frank lowered his gaze briefly, rubbing the back of his neck with a tired hand before letting out a slow breath through his nose.

“...Been tryin’ t’figure out what I’d say…” A humorless smile ghosted across his face. “...Turns out I’m still no damn good at this.”

“You never were.”

“...Yeah.”

Another silence followed, though this one carried none of the uncertainty from before. It felt strangely familiar instead, like dozens of evenings the two of you had spent sitting together after difficult days, neither expecting the other to fill every quiet moment with conversation.

Frank looked toward the sleeping figure across the room before speaking again.

“...Thought leavin’ was the right thing,” you didn’t interrupt him. “...Figured…” He swallowed once. “...figured if I wasn’t around... nobody’d use y’ t’get t’me,” his jaw tightened. “...Kept tellin’ myself I’d made peace with it,” you remained perfectly still. “...Didn’t.” The admission barely rose above a murmur.

“I know,” you whispered.

His eyes found yours again. “...No,” he shook his head once. “...Y’ don’t.”

Something inside his expression shifted, the stubborn certainty he’d carried for months beginning to crack beneath exhaustion.

“I thought about callin’... every damn week.”

Your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the chart you still held.

“...You didn’t.”

“’Cause every time…” he laughed quietly at himself, though there wasn’t an ounce of amusement behind the sound. “...Every damn time I’d hear your voice in my head tellin’ me I was an idiot…”

A faint smile tugged unwillingly at the corner of your mouth. “I probably would’ve.”

“...Yeah,” another breath. “...But I also knew…” His voice grew quieter still. “...Soon as I heard y’ again…” He stopped.

Not because he didn’t know the words, but because saying them aloud somehow made them heavier.

“...I’d wanna come home.” The sentence settled gently between you.

Not dramatic or poetic... just honest.

Frank looked away toward the rain streaking across the window. “...An’ I couldn’t.” his shoulders rose and fell with a tired sigh. “...Didn’t trust myself.”

You watched him for several moments before finally speaking. “So you decided for both of us.”

He closed his eyes. “...Yeah.”

“You never asked what I wanted.”

“...I know.”

“You decided I was safer without you.”

“...Yeah.”

“And you never considered that maybe I would’ve preferred having the chance to make that choice myself,” you said, swallowing hard, because suddenly the words were harder to come out.

Frank nodded once, slowly. “...Yeah.”

No excuses. No attempt to defend himself. Only acceptance.

You took another small step toward him until barely an arm’s length remained between you. “I was angry.”

“...I know.”

“I thought something had happened to you,” you confessed.

His breathing caught almost imperceptibly.

“I spent weeks wondering whether you were dead.”

Frank lowered his head. “...I know.”

“I hated you,” the words came quietly.

“I know.”

“And somehow…” You let out the smallest laugh, one filled more with exhaustion than humor. “...I still answered the phone.”

Frank finally looked back at you.

There was something almost unbearable in his expression now, something raw enough that it made him seem older than you had ever remembered.

“...Yeah.”

Another silence.

Then, with all the awkward honesty that had always belonged exclusively to Frank Castle— “...Missed y’.”

You didn’t answer.

He swallowed. “...Missed y’ every damn day.” The confession seemed to leave him almost embarrassed, his eyes dropping briefly toward the floor before returning to yours with stubborn resolve. “...Still do,” his voice had become rougher now. “...Didn’t matter where I went,” another pause. “...Didn’t matter how many nights I told myself I was doin’ the right thing,” he shook his head faintly. “...I’d still wake up…” his laugh came again, quieter than before. “...Reach across the bed…” He looked down at his own hand. “...And remember you weren’t there.”

For the first time since entering the room hours earlier, there was no doctor standing before him.

No composed surgeon.

No woman quietly hiding exhaustion behind professionalism.

Only you.

And Frank realized, with painful certainty, that disappearing had never once taught him how to stop loving you.

“...I miss ya, sweetheart.”

The words came so softly they almost disappeared beneath the steady beeping of Peter’s monitor.

“...I never stopped.”

You remained standing where you were, saying nothing for what felt like an eternity, though in reality only a handful of seconds passed before the silence settled into something neither of you felt compelled to interrupt. Frank had never been a man who filled empty spaces with words, and you had long since learned that the things he struggled most to say were often the truest. Throughout your relationship, it had never been lengthy declarations or carefully rehearsed speeches that convinced you of what he felt. It had been the way he’d silently pulled your coat tighter around your shoulders when winter nights became colder than either of you had expected. The way he’d memorized which cabinet held your migraine medication without ever being asked. The way he’d begun sleeping a little deeper simply because your heartbeat had become familiar enough to convince his own body that, for a few hours at least, the war outside could wait.

Frank loved with actions.

Perhaps that was why words sounded so unbearably vulnerable coming from him now.

His confession still lingered between you, fragile in a way that felt almost foreign on a man who had spent most of his life convincing the world that nothing could reach him. You could see it in the tension around his jaw, in the way his shoulders remained rigid despite the exhaustion weighing on him, in the uncertainty quietly settling behind his eyes as though, after finally saying everything he’d kept buried for months, he no longer knew what came next.

You looked at him for several more seconds before letting the chart slip onto the nearby counter.

Neither of you spoke.

You simply closed the remaining distance.

It wasn’t dramatic.

There were no tears, no hurried embrace born from months apart, no desperate attempt to erase everything that had happened with a single gesture. That wasn’t who either of you had ever been. Whatever existed between you had always been built patiently, through ordinary moments repeated often enough that they eventually became something impossible to imagine living without.

When you stopped in front of him, Frank didn’t move. Perhaps he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

You lifted one hand slowly before resting it against the side of his face.

The roughness of his stubble brushed gently against your palm, exactly as you remembered. He hadn’t changed his aftershave. You doubted he had even noticed there was still a faint scent of gunpowder clinging stubbornly to his skin beneath the antiseptic smell of the hospital. His cheek was warmer than your hand, and beneath your fingertips you could feel the subtle tightening of his jaw before, almost cautiously, he leaned into the touch.

Only slightly. Almost imperceptibly. Enough for you to know it hadn’t been unconscious.

Frank closed his eyes.

The movement was so small that anyone else might have missed it, yet you knew him well enough to understand what it meant.

Relief.

Not because everything had been fixed. Nothing had.

Months of silence couldn’t simply disappear because one difficult conversation had finally taken place. The hurt remained. The questions remained. So did the certainty that, eventually, both of you would have to talk about everything that had happened between the day he left and the day that phone call brought him back into your life.

But for now...

You hadn’t stepped away. Your thumb brushed quietly across the scar beneath his eye.

“You don’t get to make decisions for me anymore.”

Frank opened his eyes again. “...Yeah.”

“If you think leaving is the answer next time…” A faint smile appeared despite yourself. “...you’re going to have to survive me first.”

Something remarkably close to amusement flickered across his face. “...Sounds ’bout right.”

You shook your head, your hand never leaving his cheek. “You are unbelievably stubborn.”

“’M aware.”

“It was a very selfish decision,” you accused.

“...Yeah.”

“You hurt me,” the words came gently. Not as an accusation, simply as truth.

His expression faltered. “...I know.”

“And I’m still angry.”

“...Yeah.”

Another silence settled between you.

Then, unexpectedly—

“So…” Frank cleared his throat awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture you’d seen countless times whenever he found himself navigating emotions he’d rather face with a loaded rifle. “...Guess I oughta start listenin’ more.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

“...Peter yelled at me.”

A surprised laugh escaped you. “Peter yelled at you?”

“He wouldn’t shut up.”

“What did he say?” you asked.

Frank let out a tired breath through his nose. “...Kept sayin’ disappearin’ never fixed anythin’.” 

Funny coming from Peter Parker himself, considering his own life.

You tilted your head slightly. “...He’s not wrong.”

“No.” Frank looked briefly toward the sleeping young man across the room before returning his attention to you. “...Kid spent years thinkin’ carryin’ everything alone’d keep people safe,” his voice grew quieter. “...Didn’t work for him,” his eyes met yours again. “...Didn’t work for me either.”

There it was; not another apology, but a realization.

Perhaps the first one he had truly allowed himself to accept.

Frank had always believed love meant becoming a target. That anyone standing close enough to him would inevitably suffer because of it. Walking away had seemed like protection. Especially considering everything that happened to his family, how he lost them, what he lost of himself.

Now, after watching Peter nearly die trying to bear the weight of the world by himself...

After watching you come running the moment he called despite every reason not to...

He finally understood something neither of you had managed to convince him of before: distance protected no one. It only made loneliness easier to justify.

His hand rose hesitantly before settling against your waist. Unlike yours, his touch wasn’t cautious. It never had been. Frank had always held you as though reassuring himself you were real.

His thumb absentmindedly traced slow circles against your side while he searched your face for something you hadn’t yet said. “...Can I…” He stopped.

You smiled softly. “Frank.”

“...Yeah?”

“You’ve never been very good at asking.”

A quiet snort escaped him. “...Workin’ on it.”

“I noticed.”

For another heartbeat neither of you moved.

Then Frank did what had always come more naturally than speaking.

He leaned down and kissed you slowly. Not with the urgency of someone terrified you’d disappear if he let go. Nor with the desperate hunger born from months apart.

Instead, it was the kind of kiss that only existed between two people who already knew one another by heart, who had spent countless mornings sharing terrible coffee, countless nights patching each other back together after impossible fights, countless quiet moments learning that intimacy often lived in the smallest gestures.

His hand remained at your waist.  Yours stayed against his cheek. Everything else quietly disappeared. When he finally rested his forehead against yours again, neither of you spoke immediately.

There wasn’t much left to say.

Frank let out the smallest breath of laughter. “...Missed that.”

“So did I,” you whispered, with a small smile.

His eyes softened. “...Y’ just admitted it.”

“I did.”

“...Think I should shoot Peter more often,” he blurted it out with a tiny smile.

You frowned immediately. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

“’M kiddin’.”

“I know…” you said.

“You smiled,” Frank said, keeping his smile.

“I did no such thing.”

“...Liar.”

A familiar voice, still rough with sleep but carrying entirely too much satisfaction for someone recovering from surgery, drifted across the room before either of you could continue. “...Wow…”

Neither of you moved.

“...That…” Peter’s voice stretched lazily as if he’d just witnessed the ending of a particularly good movie. “...was actually... really sweet.”

Frank’s eyes closed slowly. Painfully.

“No,” Frank almost growled.

Peter grinned without opening his own. “...Yep.”

“You were asleep,” Frank accused.

“...Was,” a beat. “...Then I wasn’t,” Peter said.

Frank turned just enough to glare at the bed. “...How long?”

Peter finally cracked one eye open. “...Long enough to know…” He pointed weakly between the two of you. “...communication solved literally all your problems.”

Frank stared at him. “...Y’ little shit.”

Peter smiled wider. “I prefer ‘friendly neighborhood therapist.’”

“...You’re unconscious.”

“I don’t think I am,” Peter said, calmly.

“...You are now.”

“You can’t threaten hospital patients,” Peter said, and the smile didn’t seem to want to leave his face.

“I absolutely can,” Frank grunted.

“You already shot me!” Peter exclaimed, and you almost giggled at what you were witnessing.

“...Accident,” Frank said.

“It still counts.”

Frank pointed toward the IV stand. 

“...Doctor.”

You looked between them with impeccable composure. “Yes?”

“I need permission t’smother him with that pillow.”

Peter gasped dramatically. “I knew this hospital had terrible patient care.”

“I’m considering it,” you replied thoughtfully, folding your arms.

Peter looked horrified. “Doc!”

You hummed, pretending to weigh the options. “...Legally, I probably shouldn’t.”

Frank nodded once. “...Hear that?”

Peter sighed in exaggerated relief. “‘Probably.’” Another pause. “...That’s not the reassuring answer I was hoping for.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Then another.

Frank looked at you instinctively, his expression softening the moment he heard it.

Months had passed since he’d last been the reason for that sound. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.

Peter, of course, noticed immediately. “...Oh, he’s doing the face again.”

Frank blinked. “...What face?”

“The one where he looks at you like you’re the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him,” Peter said.

Frank looked ready to deny it. Instead, he simply muttered under his breath— “...Fucking kid.”

Peter’s grin only widened. “...Love you too, Frank.”

“...Don’t push it.”

“Why not? I saved your old ass on Staten Island first…”

“Fuck off!” 

Your laughter filled the hospital room again, blending with Peter’s amused chuckle and Frank’s long-suffering sigh until, for the first time that day, the room no longer felt like a place where someone had almost died.

It simply felt... lived in.

And somehow, none of you seemed eager to leave it just yet.

notes: i started this as soon as i finished Brand New Day because i loved the dynamic between peter and frank, lmao.

clearly, i changed things for the sake of the one-shot! but hey, i needed to do this, especially since Brand New Day feels like a journey of three people trying to reconnect with others after being alone for so long (peter mostly, then frank and jean).

"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.

You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.

The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.

What has he done?

"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.

Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.

"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"

Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?

“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”

Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.

Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.

"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."

"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."

Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?

He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.

His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.

“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.

He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.

He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.

There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.

“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.

Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.

“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”

His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.

“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.

Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.

“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”

His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.

“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”

Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."

A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.

"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.

Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.

Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.

"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.

He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.

He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.

You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?

Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.

You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.

"Don't go." He whispers.

Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.

"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.

He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."

You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.

He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.

"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."

His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.

"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."

He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.

"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."

The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.

"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.

"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."

You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.

You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.

Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.

You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.

Apparently, today was its much-needed day.

Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.

Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.

"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"

He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.

Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.

Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.

Okay, sure. You could work with that.

He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.

Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.

He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.

You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.

"Spidey." You whisper.

He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.

"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.

His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.

"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."

His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."

"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."

His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.

"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."

It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.

You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.

It gets demolished within seconds.

As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.

You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.

Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.

"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.

His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."

You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.

"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."

His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.

"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.

If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.

"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.

Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.

“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”

It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.

"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.

If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.

You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."

Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"

His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”

Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.

He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.

He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.

"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."

His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.

You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.

"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.

He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.

The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.

It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"

"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."

The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.

You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"

"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"

"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."

You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."

"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."

"That's not true." You hum.

He blinks slowly, processing your words.

"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."

He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.

"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.

The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"

"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”

He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.

It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.

“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”

"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."

Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."

"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."

"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."

His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.

"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."

Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.

It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.

"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.

You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.

"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."

His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."

"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"

He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."

His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."

Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."

"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."

You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.

He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.

"Spidey." You call out.

He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.

"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."

He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."

Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.

You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.

You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?

Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.

You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.

"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."

"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."

Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."

"Why?"

"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.

You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."

His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"

"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.

"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.

"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."

You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?

You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.

Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.

Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.

"Peter. Peter Parker."

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frank's too busy counting under his breath as he moves through another set of pushups, palms flat against the worn concrete floor, muscles shifting beneath the faded black shirt he’d abandoned halfway through the workout. now it’s tossed over the back of a chair, forgotten.

you tell yourself not to look.

he's moving through the pushups effortlessly. every rise and fall is measured. shoulders tense, forearms flexing, old scars catching your attention.

“you gonna keep staring, or you got something to say?” his voice cuts through the room.

heat climbs straight into your face. “I wasn’t staring.”

“yeah?"

“yeah, I wasn’t.”

frank pushes himself upright in a single motion and grabs the towel hanging off the chair, dragging it across the back of his neck. he chuckles under his breath, low and rough, and sits on the edge of the battered table. “you’re terrible at lyin', sweetheart."

frank reaches for the water bottle beside him and takes a drink without breaking eye contact. “what was so interesting?” he says eventually.

you blink, too stunned to speak. he lets the silence stretch and lets you sit in it. you lift your chin, trying to recover some dignity.

“I was just… making sure you weren’t overdoing it.”

he raises an eyebrow. “that’s your excuse?”

“yes.”

"yeah, okay, sure- whatever you say."

you clear your throat and make a show of looking around the room instead, as if the peeling paint on the walls has suddenly become interesting. your face feels warmer by the second, and you can only hope the dim lighting hides it.

he shakes his head once, the ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth before he drops back into position on the floor.

“c'mere.”

you blink again. “what?”

“c'mon.”

you eye him suspiciously. “why?”

“need more weight.”

you laugh. “you’ve lost it.”

“get on my back.”

you stare at him for a second, waiting for the punchline but it never comes.

“you’re serious.”

“I don’ joke about no workouts.”

from the other room, micro calls without looking up from his screens. “he really doesn’t.”

you glance between them. “you’re telling me to… sit on you?”

frank plants his hands more firmly on the concrete “what, you deaf now?"

there’s enough certainty in his voice that, after another hesitant second, you step closer. carefully, awkwardly, you shift your weight onto his back, expecting him to wobble or complain. once you’re settled, he adjusts his stance by a fraction of an inch.

“comfortable?”

“frank, are you sure about this?”

“watch me, sweetheart."

he lowers himself in one swing and pushes right back up effortlessly. your eyes widen.

“no way.”

the movement is so controlled that you barely feel yourself rise and fall with him.

“you’re kidding.”

“counting’s easier than talking, doll” he replies between repetitions. you shake your head in disbelief as he keeps going, steady as ever.

“you’re making this look easy.”

“cause' it is.”

from behind the monitors comes an exaggerated sigh “I leave the room for five minutes,” micro mutters, “and we’re inventing new gym equipment.”

frank finally finishes the set and pushes himself upright one last time. “all right,” he says evenly. “hop off.”

the moment your shoes hit the floor, you feel it properly - the difference between being held steady and suddenly being on your own balance again. frank watches you for a second, expression steady again.

“next time,” he says, “you can try not starin' so obviously.”

your face warms immediately. “frank! I said I wasn’t-”

“oh, please." he rolls his eyes and shakes his head, bringing his hand up to massage in-between his eyebrows. “it’s distractin'.”

you go still for a second, confused. “me?”

“yeah,” he says simply, picking up his shirt from the chair and tugging it on. “you.”

frank reaches the sink, turns it on, and leans forward slightly as he splashes water over his face. his shoulders are still relaxed, like he didn’t just shift something in the air between you. like he doesn’t feel it lingering at all. he turns off the tap, wipes his hands on the towel, and without looking back once, heads out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind him.

only then do you exhale properly, staring at the empty space he just left behind like it’s malfunctioning.

On one hand, you take comfort in knowing that you’re more likely to wake up quickly at the sound of potential threats. On the other hand, it can be exhausting to wake up at every little thing that goes bump in the night.

Hell's Kitchen isn’t exactly a quiet place. The average night is filled with sounds of police sirens and noisy neighbors. Shouting, stomping, fucking, fighting – you name it. Over the course of the year that you have lived here, you have grown accustomed to it – and with the help of melatonin and a white noise machine, you're able to drown most of it out. Usually.

Usually does not typically include the sound of gun shots in the alleyway below your apartment in the middle of a random Thursday night, however.

The initial shot causes you to jolt upright in your bed. Before you can process what you heard, another shot fires from somewhere outside your window, this time unmistakable.

Instinctively, you roll off of your mattress and onto the floor, using the bed as a barricade in case any bullets come flying through your window. Your heart feels as if it’s going to beat right out of your chest, and you try your hardest to regain control of your breathing while not moving a muscle.

Thirty seconds pass, then a minute, and then two while you wait for the sound of another gunshot that never comes. You’re unsure of how long you lie on your floor before finally sitting up and reaching into the drawer of the bedside table directly above your head. You pull out the Glock 42 that you purchased prior to moving to this part of town, though you haven’t truly worried about needing to use it until right now.

As quietly as you can, you crawl with the gun in hand to the opposite side of your bed, closer to the window. Your curtains are closed, and you intend on keeping them that way, but there’s a big enough gap between the fabric and the window for you to peek outside.

At first, you see nothing out of the ordinary. There’s enough light from a streetlamp at the mouth of the alleyway that you’re able to make out the trash bins and a dumpster that belongs to the bakery next door to your apartment building. You watch with bated breath, waiting for any kind of movement.

Just when you’re convinced that the shooter (or shooters) have fled the scene, a flash of movement catches your eye from the far end of the dumpster. You can tell that it’s a man – he had been hiding behind it, just out of your field of view. His head peeks around the corner, as if checking to make sure the coast is clear.

He steps out from behind the dumpster, taking several wobbly steps before leaning against the metal siding for support. Thanks to the streetlamp and tonight's full moon, you’re able to see that the side of his head is caked in what is presumably blood – whether it’s his or someone else’s, you have no idea. You watch as the man pulls back his coat, revealing a white t-shirt soaked in dark red near his shoulder.

You can’t stop the small gasp that escapes from your lips. You immediately cover your mouth with your hand, backing away from the window to search for your cell phone. He has clearly been shot, you need to call for help—

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” you whisper as renewed panic begins to surge through you.

Your fucking phone is dead. You press the power button repeatedly, hoping for it to miraculously turn on. You worked a sixteen hour shift at the hospital yesterday and crashed as soon as you got home. Didn’t eat anything for dinner, didn’t shower, didn’t even change out of your scrubs…and didn’t plug your phone in to charge.

You peer out of the window again. The man is still slumped against the dumpster, seemingly clutching at his wounded shoulder in an attempt to slow the bleeding.

You rack your brain, knowing that you need to do something. You’re a trauma nurse for Christ’s sake. You see this kind of thing and worse every day. You can’t just leave him to bleed out in the street while you watch from the comfort of your apartment.

You fear that if you turn your bedroom light on, he’ll see the light from the cracks in your curtains and attempt to run away. So you fumble around in the dark until you find a pair of slippers and a coat, cramming your pistol into an interior pocket.

You want to help – but you have no way of knowing why he was being shot at. The assailant could have a reasonable excuse as to why they put a bullet in this man’s shoulder. He’s injured, yes, but what if he deserves to be?

Your brain and your heart go back and forth with each other the entire trek down the apartment building’s stairwell. Ultimately, your heart wins, and you ease open an emergency exit door that leads directly into the alley where the man still sits with his back against the dumpster.

The second that he notices you step out of the building, he forces himself to his feet. He turns away from you, but not before you note just how much blood is all over him. He tugs the hood of his jacket over his head and begins to walk in the opposite direction, still obviously unsteady on his feet.

“Hey!” You call after him against your better judgment. “Judging by the way you’re walking and the amount of blood on you, I’d bet that you’ve lost a fair amount.”

You notice that he has a bit of a limp that causes him to walk slowly, but he doesn’t stop or so much as look back at you.

“’M fine, lady,” he grunts over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, just go back inside.”

You know that you should listen to him. Every rational and logical part of your brain is screaming at you to do as he says – turn around, go back to your apartment, and lock the fucking door.

But the pain etched in his voice roots you right where you stand. If he had any desire to harm you, why wouldn’t he do so right now? There’s no one else around. But he isn’t jumping at the opportunity to attack you – he’s actively trying to distance himself from you.

“I can help you,” You implore, your voice a bit louder this time. “I’m a trauma nurse. Let me help you.”

He stops, bracing a hand against the brick wall beside him for support. He glances back at you over his shoulder – just enough to give you a view of his side profile. Even from here, you can tell that his nose looks broken.

“See,” you continue, opening your coat enough to let him see the mauve colored scrubs that you had fallen asleep in. “No cops,” you add, reading the hesitation on his face. “I just wanna patch you up so I can go back to sleep with a clear conscience.”

Still, he says nothing. He turns, eyeing you up and down like he’s weighing the pros and cons of putting his trust in a stranger.

Truthfully, you should be doing the same right about now.

You shiver, closing your coat once more at a sudden gust of wind. “Or bleed out,” you shrug. You take a step backwards, towards the emergency exit you had come out of. “At least I know that I tried.”

You turn around, grabbing the door handle but freezing before pulling it open when you hear him finally speak.

“Wait,” he starts, his voice gruff and strained. You look back at him expectantly. “No cops?” he reiterates.

“No cops,” you promise. “Just a nurse trying to do what she went to school for.” You pause. “And maybe get some good karma out of it.”

You hold the door open for him, motioning with your head as if to say after you. He hesitates for a second longer, and then begins to limp towards you. The thought crosses your mind to help him up the stairs to your apartment on the second story, but you quickly remind yourself that you do not know this man. You’re already being risky by simply offering him help – you should at least attempt to keep some amount of space in between the two of you.

He hobbles up the stairwell, one hand clutching the railing and the other holding pressure to his shoulder wound with his t-shirt that is already soaked through with blood. You can tell he’s in a decent amount of pain, despite how he tries to conceal it.

You open your door for him before you can talk yourself out of it, mentally saying a prayer to whatever higher power may be listening that you don’t end up regretting this.

“You can take a seat on the couch,” you say as you close the door behind you. “And remove your coat and shirt, if you can. I’ll gather my supplies.”

You instinctively begin to shrug out of your own coat, but then remember the pistol that rests in the pocket and decide it’s safer to resume wearing it. He is a complete stranger, and a bloody, bruised one at that.

With his back still turned to you, he slowly slips off his coat and then carefully pulls the blood-soaked t-shirt over his head. He hisses in pain, which isn’t shocking considering the intense bruising that decorates the thick muscles of his back.

Your gaze lingers for a moment longer than it should before you start gathering the necessary supplies from around your small apartment. Towels, sterile saline, medical shears, gauze, bandages…

When you reenter the room a moment later with everything you managed to scrounge together on such short notice, he’s already sitting on the couch, fiddling absentmindedly with the wilted petals of the dead flowers in a vase on the table in front of him.

Your eyes are instantly drawn to the entry wound just under his clavicle, near his left shoulder, and you breathe a small sigh of relief. Though it still leaks dark red, it isn’t gushing as you had feared it would be.

“I’m going to do a basic assessment first,” you tell him as you take a seat on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch, your voice doing little to conceal how nervous the newfound close proximity makes you. You reach for his left hand, which you take in your own. “Any numbness or tingling?”

He shakes his head after a split-second. “No.”

“Can you wiggle your fingers for me?”

He does so without hesitation, the calloused, blood-streaked fingers flexing against your palm.

“Good,” you murmur, bringing two of your fingers to check his radial pulse.

He makes a low sound, something halfway between a laugh and a grunt. “Am I dead?” He hums, voice gravelly but light with amusement.

You roll your eyes. “Not yet.” You pause, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath his skin. “I’m just making sure you’ve got good blood flow to this arm and hand.”

“And?”

“And you got lucky,” you tell him, dropping his hand to reach for a towel and the bottle of sterile saline. “Another inch to the left and the bullet would’ve nicked your subclavian artery. You would have already bled out behind that dumpster.”

“Lucky,” he scoffs, the word dripping with sarcasm. “If I’m lucky, it’s only because I chose the right alley to get shot in tonight.”

You snort a laugh without meeting his gaze as you begin to wipe away the excess blood from his skin, the words and the rough timbre of his voice sending goosebumps across your skin.

“Try not to make it a habit,” you mutter, forcing yourself to focus on the wound instead of the pair of dark brown eyes that appear almost black in the dim lighting of your living room.

The man is silent while you work to clean up all of the blood that is dried to the skin of his neck and chest.

“What about you?” He asks when you pull the now red-tinged towel away for a final time. “Do you make a habit of bringing strange, wounded men into your home?”

“Can’t say that I do. You’d be the first.” Then, because the way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re the one who lost a liter of blood, you speak again before he has a chance to respond in that voice that makes it hard for you to focus on what you’re supposed to be doing here.

“There‘s no exit wound, so that means the bullet is probably still inside. I’m going to leave it there, because attempting to extract it here could do a lot more harm than good.”

He gives a nonchalant half shrug. “Wouldn’t be the only bullet to live inside me.”

“Oh?” You quip, somehow only mildly surprised by the admission. “You collecting them?”

The corners of his mouth tug upwards into something resembling a smirk. “Something like that.”

As curious as that makes you, you don’t pry. You don’t think you could possibly like the answer. You do the rest of your work in the kind of silence that doesn’t actually feel quiet because it only gives your thoughts time to get louder and louder.

You blot a few fresh droplets of blood. What the hell is this guy involved in?

You place a sterile dressing over the wound. If this isn’t his first time getting shot, how many times has he been shot?

You secure the dressing to his chest with medical tape. What is his name?

As soon as you pull your hands away, he starts to stand in front of you. “Oh,” you squeak, “No, I wouldn’t stand up quite yet. You should give it a few minutes to make sure your bandage doesn’t soak through—”

The man, now towering over you, shakes his head. “This should hold me together. I’ve had worse.”

Jesus Christ.

“At least let me give you something for the pain,” you try to reason with him, standing up. When you do, your chest is only a few inches from his, still bare in front of you. You instantly start to put some space between you. “Seriously, that’s going to fucking hurt—”

He chuckles low, cutting you off. “Extra strength ibuprofen doesn’t really do much for me these days, but I appreciate it.”

You’re at a loss for words for a moment, and you aren’t even sure why. It’s not like you should be thinking of an excuse to make the man hang around your apartment for any longer than necessary. You’ve done what you set out to do - bring him inside, make sure he isn’t going to bleed out, and patch him up. Mission accomplished. Now all that’s really left is to send him on his way and lock the door behind him.

“Right,” you huff a humorless laugh. “Well, I would tell you to stay out of trouble, but something tells me it wouldn’t do much good.”

He grabs his jacket and blood-soaked t-shirt off of the couch, choosing to forgo the latter and instead slip only the zip up hoodie back on.

“No, probably not,” he deadpans, the huskiness of his voice making your apartment feel hotter than it actually is. “Thank you, though. I appreciate this. You didn’t have to help me.” He pauses, looking you directly in the eye, his expression grave and unreadable. “And if you were smart, you wouldn’t have. So let’s keep this the one and only time you do this, yeah?”

The way he’s looking at you gives you very little confidence to fight him on that. Every smart retort that pops into your head dies on your tongue under his stare.

You only nod, and after another wordless, tense moment, he begins to show himself out.

“You at least gonna tell me your name?” You call after him, willing your voice not to crack.

He doesn’t so much as look over his shoulder when he answers with another humorless laugh.

“I promise, it’s better for us both if I don’t, angel.”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

Three days pass, and with each one, you’re a little more convinced that the man with the haunted, espresso-colored eyes who sat bleeding in your living room was nothing more than a figment of your imagination.

Then you see the blood-stained hand towel you had used to wipe his skin clean, and you’re reminded that it was not a fever dream. He really had been here, and you had helped him, and you have no reason to believe you’ll ever see him again now.

That is, until a knock from outside your bedroom window wakes you up at seven o’clock in the morning on your day off.

At first, you think you dreamed it. But then you quickly remember what happened last time you heard something from outside this very window, and before you’re fully awake, you’re swinging your legs over the side of your bed and walking the short distance to the window. You peak out of the curtain, and upon first glance, you see nothing.

What would there be to see, anyway? You’re on the second story. Someone would have had to climb your fire escape to—

You glance down and freeze, your entire body going rigid at what lay on the platform of your fire escape.

Flowers.

It’s nothing extravagant. A small bunch of wildflowers tied together mid-stems with a string. But still, flowers. On your fire escape at seven o'clock in the morning.

A folded piece of paper rests beneath the stems, enticing you to open the window and see what it says. To see who the hell they could possibly be from, though a specific, bruised face already pops into your mind in answer.

You look around again, peering both ways down the alley outside your window. There’s nothing but a few trash cans and the same dumpster that your mysterious, after hours patient had hid behind.

If not him…then who the hell else? You can’t even recall the last time someone gave you flowers. The dead, wilted ones currently on your coffee table are from a street vendor that sells them down the block from the hospital you work at. You bought them for yourself.

Once you have convinced yourself that no one is lurking in the alleyway, watching for you to open your window, you do so, quickly grabbing the small bouquet of multi-colored wildflowers and the piece of paper before shutting (and locking) your window once more.

The handwriting on the folded note is a masculine scrawl.

The flowers in your living room need to be thrown away

Thanks again, angel

- F

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

You installed a security camera outside of your bedroom window the following day.

Its position allows you to see your fire escape, as well as the mouth of the alleyway outside of your bedroom.

You didn’t do it because you’re creeped out, or because you feel unsafe. You did it because if he were to come again, you don’t want to miss him. You don’t want to be left wondering if it’s really him.

The man with a scar just under his clavicle, the man who left flowers on your fire escape and then ran before you had a chance to get out of bed, the man who called you angel, the man whose name starts with F.

You’ve been referring to him as Frederick in your head for two months now. You spent an embarrassing amount of time scouring baby naming websites for male names that start with F, and Frederick stood out the most. It means peaceful ruler, and the irony of that makes you laugh considering the circumstances under which you met, but unless he ever returns and tells you his actual name, you will continue to let yourself believe it’s Frederick.

Fred, for short.

After two months, you begin to doubt that will ever happen. You helped him, and he returned with flowers to thank you, and that is the end of that. You eventually stop glancing out your window at every little bump in the night, you stop checking the Ring camera footage hoping that one of the notifications is him, and you resume life as normal.

So when a tapping sound randomly wakes you in the middle of the night after more than two months without a trace of him, you first assume it’s only the thunderstorm raging outside. You think so little of it that your initial response is to simply turn over, pull your comforter tighter, and close your eyes.

Then you hear it again.

Just a bit louder this time, but now undeniable. Knuckles against glass. Still, you hesitate, the fear of realizing that someone is outside of your window, on your fire escape in the dead of night momentarily paralyzing you. Then, still half asleep, you remember what happened last time there was a knock on your bedroom window, and you quickly grab your phone off of your nightstand, jerking it from the power cord.

Your most recent notification is informing you of movement on your security camera. The description reads a person is standing on the fire escape knocking on a window.

You pull up the live footage as your heart threatens to beat right out of your chest. Your hands go clammy, anticipation surging through—

His hair is longer and his beard has grown in full since you last saw him, but there’s no doubt in your mind that it’s him.

Your trembling thumb hovers over the microphone button for a moment before you’re able to work up the courage to press it.

“No flowers this time?” You speak into your phone, loud enough for him to hear you over the rain that pours down around him. Right away, he glances at the camera located in the upper corner of the window, his expression somewhere between a smirk and a pained grimace.

“Sorry,” he huffs. “Didn’t exactly have time to pick any in between getting my ass kicked and climbing your fire escape at three in the morning.” He pauses. “So what’s it gonna be, angel? You gonna let me in or do I need to walk to the closest emergency room?”

You don’t answer him over the camera. Instead, you put your phone down, flick your nightstand lamp on, and then take a few steps to your bedroom window. Your curtains are closed, and you take a deep breath before pulling them open.

You’re actually doing this again. Letting this stranger, this injured man, into your home again in the middle of the night.

Only this time, he’s sopping wet.

He doesn’t say anything when you first open the window. He just ducks beneath the frame with a sharp hiss, one forearm braced against the sill as he carefully maneuvers one leg through the opening. For a moment, he pauses halfway inside, his shoulders tense beneath the rain soaked fabric of his hoodie. His eyes squeeze shut as he shifts his weight, and a low, involuntary grunt escapes him.

You automatically reach out, your hand hovering near his elbow.

“I’ve got it,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

You don’t argue, but you still stay close while he swings his other leg through the threshold of the window and then straightens his posture as much as he can manage. One arm instinctively folds across the right side of his ribcage, guarding it, while rain droplets drip from the ends of his hair onto your bedroom floor.

“Sorry about the mess,” he grunts, glancing down at his boots that squeak against the hardwood.

You offer a small shrug. “I need to mop anyway.”

Now that he’s inside, you take a closer look at him. There’s a bruise forming along his cheekbone, and another reddish, puffy knot at his temple. His bottom lip is slightly cracked, caked with dried blood. There’s bags beneath his brown eyes, as if he has hardly slept since you last saw him.

“You look like hell, Fred.”

Thick brows scrunch together. “Fred?”

You nod. “That’s what I’m going to call you until you tell me your actual name. Which I’m assuming is not Fred, then?”

Air blows through his nose in a near silent laugh, his chest shaking with the movement before another pained grimace flashes across his face. “Not Fred.”

Your eyes rake downwards where he still clutches his side. “Let me guess,” you sigh, “ribs?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Think so.”

You jerk your head in the direction of your bedroom door. “Go to the living room. I’m gonna see if I can scrounge up some dry clothes that might fit you.”

He hesitates, another ghost of a laugh escaping him as his eyes trail downwards. “Maybe grab some pants for yourself while you’re at it, yeah?”

By the time your brain processes his words, he’s already walking towards your bedroom door, leaving you wide-eyed and warm-faced. You glance down in confirmation of what you’re already painfully aware of: you aren’t wearing any pants.

A t-shirt just long enough to conceal the curve of your ass, but no pants.

You recover from the embarrassment quick enough, springing into action to find a pair of pants for yourself as well as a change of clothes for the drenched man in the other room. Luckily, you still have a bag of random clothes your ex had left at your place forever ago that you had forgotten to throw out. He’s a bit stockier, more muscular, than your ex, but they are similar in height. These might be a little bit tight, but they will at least be more comfortable than wet, cold clothes.

When you enter the living room with a plain white t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants only a minute later, he has already removed his jacket and undershirt.

His eyes flicker downwards and back up again, lips twitching with the threat of a smirk at the realization that you had taken his advice and put on a pair of pajama pants before his gaze lands on the men’s clothing in your hands.

“Ex boyfriend’s,” you explain, probably quicker than necessary as you place them on your coffee table. “They got pushed to the back of my closet. Should fit you well enough.”

His gaze softens a tad at that. “Thanks.”

You nod, then glance down, your attention instantly drawn to the right side of his ribcage. The skin there is already darkening, a bruise beginning to bloom beneath a patch of angry redness and subtle swelling. You take a small step towards him, a tentative hand coming to his side. Your fingertips brush the skin there ever so lightly, and he lets you, the muscles there tensing.

“Take a deep breath for me,” you murmur.

He inhales, his torso stiffening and muscles in his jaw clenching before he releases a shaky exhale.

“Again.”

Though it clearly brings him discomfort, he’s able to take a reasonably deep breath, which puts your mind somewhat at ease.

“You know, telling me exactly what happened would help me assess the injury more accurately,” you hum, dropping your hand from the warm skin of his side and crossing your arms over your chest.

He snorts. “Got kicked. Boot to the ribcage.”

Considering he had a bullet in him last time he was in your living room, the answer is only mildly alarming.

“People seem to enjoy beating the shit out of you.”

He raises a brow at you. “Is that my official diagnosis?”

You sigh, eyes flickering back down to the puffy, red skin of his otherwise toned abdomen. “It’s impossible to know for certain without an x-ray,” you shrug. “It’s probably just a bruised rib or two. Possibly fractured. Not much to be done either way.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, reaching down for the t-shirt on the coffee table in front of him with a grimace. “That’s what I figured.”

Now it’s your turn to cock a brow. “Why’d you come here, then?”

You can’t help the question as it slips out. He has clearly had more than his fair share of injuries - the evidence of them are littered across his body in old, fading bruises and scar tissue. A cracked rib is minor in comparison to the marred skin of his chest where you had patched him up just two months ago.

For once, he doesn’t meet your gaze. Instead, he gives a nonchalant shrug as he maneuvers the dry t-shirt over his head.

“Guess I thought it would be a safe place to lay low until this storm blows over.”

A crack of thunder booms in the distance as soon as the last word leaves his lips. Part of you wants to press for more, but you figure that is likely as honest of an answer as you will get from him, so you hold back all the other questions that threaten to spill from you.

What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into? Why here? You really had nowhere else to go?

Who the hell are you?

Instead, you say nothing. You simply pick up the pair of sweatpants still sitting on the table next to you, and hand them to him in offering until he accepts them.

“There’s a bathroom just down that hallway,” you tell him with a small nod in the direction of the guest bathroom. “You can throw all of your clothes in the dryer, if you’d like.”

For a moment, he only stares at you. His mouth parts slightly as if he’s going to speak, but then changes his mind and only nods.

“I’ll get you an ice pack. If you’re going to hang out here, you’re going to ice that rib, Fred,” you sigh as you start to walk in the direction of your kitchen. “And you’re going to take some ibuprofen—”

“It’s Frank.”

You stop in your tracks, quickly turning to look at him. “What?”

“My name,” he clarifies, voice gruff, “it’s Frank.”

Your surprise undoubtedly shows on your face at the revelation. You repeat the name, more to yourself than anything, with a slow nod.

“Nice to meet you, Frank.”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

To your disappointment, but not your surprise, Frank had already left when you woke up later that morning.

Frank. At first, it felt odd to finally know his actual name after calling him Fred in your head for over two months. You got used to it quickly, though. By the fourth, fifth, sixth time that he shows up on your fire escape, you forget how it ever felt to not know Frank Castle’s name.

His appearances became somewhat predictable.

Every two to three weeks, you wake up to soft tapping on your window in the late hours of the night. Sometimes he has cuts, sometimes bruises. Sometimes both. You patch him up to the best of your abilities, you offer him food and water, you let him sleep on your couch until daylight comes, and then he slips out of your front door so silently that it doesn’t even wake you.

That is, until his most recent visit, when you woke up and found him still snoring softly in your living room. He had shown up on your fire escape, as he always does, with a split lip and black eye. The injuries hardly warranted a nurse’s consultation, but you welcomed him in, anyway.

You walked into your living room that morning fully expecting him to be gone. When you realized that he hadn’t moved, you couldn’t help but stare at him for a moment. Early morning sunlight was trickling in through your curtains, spilling across his face and catching on the bruises that colored his skin.

It was by far the most at peace you’ve seen him in all of the months that you’ve known him.

But Frank is a light sleeper. As quiet as you tried to be, he woke as soon as you started moving around your kitchen to make yourself a cup of coffee.

He seemed just as surprised as you were that he had slept so long. And then, when you offered him breakfast, he surprised you both again.

He stayed.

He stayed while you cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them together with a splash of milk and extra shredded cheese - just like your grandmother always did when making omelettes, you told him. He leaned against your kitchen counter with a cup of coffee, quietly watching you move around your apartment as if he had done so a hundred times before. As if it was any other Tuesday morning.

Conversation flowed easier than it had ever had. You told him about some of your patients from the past week. About a little boy who had proudly showed you his dinosaur bandage after getting stitches, and about the elderly man who shamelessly flirts with every nurse in your unit despite having recently celebrated his fiftieth wedding anniversary.

More than anything else, you talked about yourself, because Frank asks more questions than he answers, but you did learn that he hates mushrooms with a passion, and takes his coffee black.

That was a month ago now, and you haven’t seen him since.

Not a word. No late night visits, no flowers or thank you notes left on your fire escape in the dead of night. You had given him your phone number scribbled on a post-it note the fourth or fifth time that he showed up to your place, but he hadn’t made any use of that, either.

The first couple of weeks, you didn’t think anything of it. It was normal to go a few weeks without seeing him. But now that it’s been a whole month, you’re worried.

Why hasn’t he come by? Is he okay? Did he skip town? Did he get into some kind of altercation that he wasn’t able to walk away from? Is he even alive?

You stay up late each night, unable to find sleep, your thoughts racing with all of these questions that you have no way of finding the answers to.

You’ve spiraled over the unknown more than you care to admit. From randomly checking your security camera footage in the middle of a shift to searching for his name in local obituaries, you’ve let his extended, unexplained absence consume you. When you’re awake, you’re wondering where he is, what he’s doing, and when you’ll see him again. When you’re asleep, his brown eyes and scarred skin appear in your dreams.

Friends and coworkers have started to notice how distracted you’ve allowed yourself to become, too. Hence the reason you’re at a crowded, noisy bar at 10:30 on a Wednesday night.

A couple of coworkers had all but drug you with them after your shift earlier today, insisting that you needed to get out, have a few drinks, and get the mystery man who you refuse to admit actually exists off of your mind.

For the first hour or two, it worked.

You mingled, gossiped, laughed. But now? Two martinis in, exhausted from a twelve hour shift, and listening to some twenty-one year old sing karaoke off key? You can’t stop your thoughts from wandering back to the very person that you had hoped to drown from them.

When you tell the coworker who had invited you that you’re going to head home because you’re exhausted, she tries to convince you to stay for one more drink. When that doesn’t work, she tries to convince you to let her walk you home, and although you appreciate the offer, your apartment is only a few blocks from here and you really just want to be alone with your thoughts and the crisp night air.

Very quickly, you regret not letting her walk you home, or ordering yourself an Uber, or flagging down a fucking taxi.

“Hey, sweetheart. You need a ride somewhere?”

Something in your gut tells you the sudden, masculine voice is talking to you without even looking. You stumble the slightest bit, but you keep walking, giving no acknowledgment that you had even heard him. Your hand instinctively goes to your purse that rests against your hip. Inside is your Glock that you’ve still never actually had to use.

Footsteps thud against the pavement behind you. Your fingers twitch against the leather fabric, preparing to reach down inside.

“Hey!” The voice calls out, louder this time, right behind you. A hand clamps down on your shoulder. “I’m talking to you. Don’t be rude now—”

Three things happen at once.

You shove your hand down into your bag to grip the gun nestled inside, you come face to face with the tall but scrawny man still grabbing your shoulder, and a faceless, hooded figure emerges from the shadows of the nearest alleyway.

“Doesn’t seem like she’s very interested to me,” a deep, gruff voice booms from beneath the hood. It startles the man enough to release his hold on your shoulder and take an immediate step back. It startles you, too, but for different reasons.

You instantly recognize that voice. You’ve thought of it every night since you last heard it a month ago. You’ve thought of it every night since you first found its owner bleeding outside of your apartment.

And if the voice isn’t confirmation enough, the thick, dark beard peeking out from beneath the hood is plenty.

“Oh, I was—” The scrawny man stutters, taking a few steps backwards, attempting to put some distance between him and the unexpected presence, “—was just seeing if she needed a ride—”

“Wrong woman,” Frank barks, lifting his hood enough to reveal eyes so dark that they look black beneath the streetlamp, fixed on the man with an unwavering intensity that silently promises violence.

The man continues to stumble backwards and your grip on the Glock, still tucked out of sight, relaxes.

“S—sorry, man,” he squeaks. “I don’t want any problems. Swear—”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

The man doesn’t say another word before scampering away in the opposite direction, leaving you alone with Frank Castle.

Are you hallucinating? Did someone spike your fucking drink at the bar? Or is he actually standing in front of you, beard fuller and hair longer than you’ve ever seen it, looking at you like he doesn’t know if he should stay or disappear again?

“Hey, angel.”

The words seem to snap you out of a trance. One second, you’re standing there, staring at him with squinted eyes, and the next, you’re pulling your pistol out of your bag, the muzzle pointed directly at his chest.

He takes an involuntary step back, his hands raising in front of him in shocked defense. “Christ, what the fu—”

“I had that handled.” You wave the gun around haphazardly for emphasis.

Frank grabs the barrel of the Glock, pushing it downwards. “Would you stop swinging that thing around?” He pauses, leaning in to take a closer look at you. “Are you drunk?”

You’re unable to stop the laugh that escapes you at that. “Why don’t you tell me? You know, since apparently you’re stalking me.”

“Stalking you?” Frank scoffs, almost offended. “I ain’t stalking you.”

You shove the gun back into your purse without taking your eyes off of his incredulous expression. “Oh, no? You just so happened to be in the exact right place at the exact right time after ghosting me for a month?”

He falls silent, giving a small nod to himself as his gaze wanders up and down the street before settling on the cracked pavement beneath his boots. Anywhere but your eyes. “I wasn’t trying to stalk you, alright? I was in the neighborhood and saw you go into the bar. Just wanted to make sure you got home alright.” He pauses, meeting your gaze once again, his dark eyes as intense and unyielding as ever. “And it’s a good thing that I did.”

It’s your turn to scoff at that. “Right. So you care enough to make sure that I get home safely…” You take a step closer to him, your stare unblinking as you look up at him in the light of the streetlamp, “but you couldn’t pick up a phone and call me? Couldn’t leave a note? Couldn’t climb my fire escape at any point in the last month to let me know you hadn’t been gunned down in a random alley in Hell’s Kitchen?”

Frank’s jaw tightens as he swallows thickly. No answer.

You snort a humorless laugh, taking a step back. “That’s what I thought.”

You start to turn around, to walk away, when the small, petty part of you easily influenced by alcohol begs you to open your mouth again. “And just so you know, Frank, I checked the obituaries to see if you were dead.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re already walking in the opposite direction.

He lets you go and does not try to hide the fact that he follows you the rest of the way to your apartment, not turning around until you’ve safely entered the building.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

That night, Frank Castle appears in your dreams.

It isn’t the first time he’s been conjured by your subconscious, but it is the first time that you wake up and have to question what is fantasy and what is reality due to how utterly lifelike it had all felt.

You hear a gruff voice calling you angel. You see tortured brown eyes staring at you the way they had beneath the streetlights, heavy with the weight of everything he had refused to say. But instead of staying silent when you start to walk away, he stops you. He calls out for you with a restrained grunt of your name, and asks you not to go.

When you jerk awake to the sound of your alarm, your heart is racing, and for a few disorienting moments, you have to remind yourself that you’re alone in your bedroom. Frank Castle is not here. He’s not snoring in your living room, he’s not waiting on your fire escape for you to open the window and let him inside.

You don’t know if he ever will be again.

It’s the kind of dream that leaves you in a melancholic headspace for hours after waking.

You try your hardest to go about your day as normal. You clock in for a twelve hour shift at the emergency department, feeling severely unrested and slightly hungover. You drink more coffee than you usually do to get you through the first few hours of the morning, in between patients.

First, a seven-year-old boy with a fractured elbow. Skateboarding accident. Next, an elderly woman with a nasty grease burn. Bacon accident. Then, a construction worker with a mangled finger. Nail gun accident. And now…

“There’s a man in Central 12. Says he hit his head. Possible concussion.”

You briefly look up from your task of restocking a crash cart to give your charge nurse, Jenny, a nod of confirmation. “I’ll be with him in just a moment.”

She’s silent for a second. “He asked for you by name.”

That gets your undivided attention. You look up again, this time noticing an amused expression on Jenny’s face that piques your interest even further. “Do you know who it is?”

Jenny shrugs. “Never seen him before. Says his name is Fred?”

You drop the oxygen mask you’re holding out of surprise. “Fred?” You echo as Frank’s face flashes through your mind.

She nods, the amusement on her face quickly shifting into confusion. “Yeah, why? You know him?”

You can’t bring yourself to say yes until you walk to Central 12 and see him with your own two eyes.

And even then, when you see Frank Castle sitting on the exam table in his normal attire of bruises and all black, you still have to question whether or not you’re actually awake, or in your bed, still dreaming.

You close the door before speaking. “You know, showing up to my job isn’t really helping you with the stalker allegations.”

His broad shoulders lift with silent laughter as he looks around the room, not meeting your gaze. “Tried to go by your place this morning,” he says simply. “You weren’t there, so I took a guess…figured you might be here.”

You hum, crossing your arms over your chest as you come to stand directly in front of him. Your eyes skim over his face, looking for any sign of visible injury. “Here I am,” you exhale. “Let me guess. You didn’t actually hit your head?”

Another snort of laughter as his gaze meets yours. You’re aware that it could be your imagination playing tricks on you, but you swear that for a split-second, his eyes flicker down to your lips and then back up.

“I’m having a hard time remembering,” he grunts, a spark of something humorous appearing and then disappearing from his stare. “Maybe you should check me over and make sure I’m not concussed while you hear me out.”

Maybe it’s the rough timbre of his voice, or maybe his choice of words, or maybe the way he’s looking at you, but whatever it is makes goosebumps spread all the way down your spine.

There’s a waiting room full of people waiting to be seen just down the hallway. People with actual injuries. People who might really be concussed. People who don’t come in and out of your life like ghosts.

At least a dozen different reasons as to why you shouldn’t indulge him come to mind, but none of them stop you from reaching for the penlight clipped to your scrub pocket.

“Follow the light.”

He obeys without complaint, lips quirking slightly at the corners as his eyes track the beam left, right, up, and down.

“Any dizziness? Blurred vision? Nausea or vomiting?”

You already know the answers before he opens his mouth.

“No. None of that.”

You click the pen off. “Tell me your full name.”

He huffs something between a laugh and a sigh. “Francis David Castle Sr.”

That answer does take you by surprise. Not the fact that his first name is actually Francis. No, what surprises you is the suffix. Senior. Because if Frank is actually Francis David Castle Sr., then that can only imply…

“You have a son?”

His expression changes almost immediately. The slight amusement disappears from his face, but he doesn’t drop your gaze. “Had,” he grunts. “Had a daughter, too.”

He doesn’t need to say anything else. His choice of words makes it clear. Had. Past tense. No more.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” you murmur sincerely.

Frank nods, so small that it’s nearly imperceptible as he clears his throat. “Yeah. Me too.”

You don’t press the subject further. Not here, not now. You just lock the information away with every other fact he’s hesitantly handed over since meeting him. Like his name and how he takes his coffee.

“Alright. Last question,” you say gently. You swallow down the small lump that has unexpectedly formed in your throat, forcing your attention back to the matter at hand. “Why are you here right now, Frank?”

He studies you for a long moment before answering, making the small exam room suddenly seem suffocating.

“I’m here to tell you I’m sorry,” he says, his voice and expression equally grave. “For disappearing the way that I did. For…making you worry. I didn’t think…” he trails off, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. He shakes his head, a humorless laugh escaping him. “Hell, I don’t know what I was thinkin’.”

You nod slowly, taking a seat on the stool in front of him before responding. You glance down at your hands in your lap. “Why did you?” You ask, voice meeker than you intend for it to sound. “Disappear?”

Another moment of silence that feels eternal. “Thought it’d be better for you. Safer.” You meet his gaze at that. His lips purse, and you think that’s as much of an explanation as he’s going to give, but then his lips part again. “…and I guess it’s been a long time since I’ve had someone care about me like that. Kinda forgot what it feels like.”

He swallows thickly at that, like he’s holding himself back from saying anything more. Without thinking, you wheel yourself closer to him until your knees are nearly brushing his where they dangle from the exam table. He stares down at you, and you up at him, and the rest of the hospital outside of these four walls seems to fade away.

“Safer?” You murmur. “You know you’re talking to the girl who invited a bleeding stranger into her apartment in the middle of the night, right?”

He chuckles low, his broad shoulders rising and falling with it. “Exactly,” he sighs. “You won’t keep yourself safe, so I guess it’s up to me.”

You quirk a brow. “So you were stalking me last night, then.”

He hesitates just long enough for you notice the faint, barely visible blush that blooms beneath his beard. “Stalking is a strong word.”

“I knew it.”

The blush on his cheeks grows a deeper pink and he rolls his eyes, now avoiding yours. “Look, I wasn’t…wasn’t trying to follow you or anything weird. Just…every now and then, I’d check in. Make sure nobody’s hanging around your building.” He pauses, his jaw clenching. “Make sure that nobody has connected you to me.”

Although that might possibly be the most honest Frank Castle has been since you first met him, it somehow leaves you with more questions than answers.

It’s never been a secret that the man who shows up on your fire escape bloodied and bruised on a regular basis has his fair share of secrets that reek of violence and destruction, but hearing it come from his own mouth that merely being associated with him could potentially jeopardize your safety…

It’s the kind of honesty that should send you running in the opposite direction. But then again, there’s a lot about Frank Castle that should have sent you running in the opposite direction a long time ago.

Yet here you are. Not running. Not even telling him to leave. You weren’t able to walk away from him the very first time that you found him bleeding outside of your apartment, and you sure as hell aren’t able to now.

Slowly, you rise from the stool you’ve been sitting on. Once at eye level with him, you take a small, tentative step closer, stopping when your thighs brush against his knees. Usually, the two of you are only ever this close when you’re examining a black eye or busted lip, but right now, there’s no injuries in sight. Just his big, chocolate brown eyes and slightly chapped lips inches from your own.

“You were wrong about one thing,” you murmur, voice breathy. Your hands hover awkwardly for a moment before settling atop his thighs, the touch intimate in a way that’s brand new. “You disappearing wasn’t better for me. It only made me feel like I was losing my mind.”

The air in the room turns thick and heavy at the admission. Borderline asphyxiating. At first, he says nothing, but brings one hand to rest against your hip. His grip is loose enough that you could easily step away if you wanted to, but tight enough for you to know that he hopes you don’t.

“Yeah,” he grunts, voice low. “That makes two of us, then.”

The confession comes as a pleasant surprise that gives you enough courage to ease yourself just between his legs, further into his embrace. His eyes flicker down to your lips for not the first time since stepping foot in this room, this time undeniable and unabashed.

You clear your throat a bit in a failed effort to break the tension. “Well, good news,” you breathe, “I don’t think you’re concussed.”

He chuckles low, his gaze unwavering. “That is good news. I’d hate for you to think I’m not thinking clearly right now.”

And before you even have a chance to wonder if he’s really about to do what you think he’s about to do, he leans forward and closes the small amount of space separating your lips from his.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

Your phone rings at 8:30 that night, just one hour after you get home from your twelve hour shift at the hospital. You’re stepping out of the shower when your screen lights up with an unknown number.

Normally, you ignore or send them straight to voicemail. More than half of the calls that you get these days are robocalls, but this particular number isn’t being flagged as a potential spam risk. In fact, it’s a local number, with a Hell’s Kitchen area code.

And though there’s no way of knowing for sure who it is, you secure your towel around your midsection and answer as if you do.

“I was starting to think you’d lost my number.”

You’re first greeted by silence. Then a familiar, rough chuckle that makes goosebumps bloom on your still damp skin.

“Nah.” There’s another beat of quiet. “Just took me a while to work up the nerve.”

You snort a laugh and take a seat on the edge of your mattress. “The man who gets into gunfights on a regular basis was afraid to call a girl?”

He doesn’t deny it. “I didn’t say it made sense.”

You hum in response, trying to fight down the flight of butterflies in your stomach at the mere sound of his voice in your ear. “So, where are you bleeding right now?”

Another low laugh pours through the speaker. “No blood yet tonight,” he sighs. “That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh?” You chirp with a hint of sarcasm. “Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

More silence. He clears his throat, as if he’s trying to force the words out, “I’m calling to ask you something I should’ve asked you earlier.”

You grin despite the small bundle of nerves in the pit of your stomach.

“You got any plans tomorrow night?”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

When you hear a knock on your front door at exactly seven o’clock, you’ve already been dressed and pacing your apartment for nearly half an hour.

Even though you already know who is on the other side, you instinctively glance through the peephole. You see a freshly shaven Frank Castle - looking around almost nervously and holding a small bouquet of wildflowers.

Just like ones he had left on your fire escape several months prior.

You take a steadying breath, smoothing your hands over the front of your outfit and hope that it’s good enough for whatever the hell you’re going to be doing tonight. When you had asked what he had in mind, he had laughed, painting a vivid picture in your mind of the light blush that was undoubtedly blooming on the apples of his cheeks.

“Haven’t figured that out yet,” he murmured. “Wasn’t sure I’d even get this far.”

You struggled to see Frank Castle taking you to a five star restaurant, so you picked something somewhat casual but still cute. Comfortable, and weather appropriate, but cute.

At least you hope so. You don’t even remember the last time you had to select an outfit for a date. A date or…whatever this is.

Before you can overthink that, you open the door for him.

For a second, neither of you say anything.

Frank’s eyes travel over you slowly, but not in a way that makes your skin crawl like it would if it were literally anyone else. He looks at you in a way that makes you feel like he’s trying real hard not to look at you, and that makes you feel warm all over.

“…Hi,” he says at last.

You can’t help but smile at how simple yet nervous the singular word sounds coming from his lips. “Hi.”

His gaze drops to the flowers in his hands as though he’d forgotten he was holding them. “These are for you.” He holds the bouquet out to you in offering. “Figured the others probably needed to be replaced a long time ago.”

You exhale a shaky laugh, thinking of the flowers he had left on your fire escape just days after you first met. You had kept them in a vase in your kitchen for long after they wilted, not wanting to throw them away.

You don’t tell him that, though, or that you intend to keep these for even longer.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

….i had originally planned for this to be longer, but life and my brain had other plans, so i hope it’s still cute as is. sorry if the ending seems rushed. maybe one day i will pick this story back up and write a part two with my original plans for this fic, if people are interested and inspiration strikes!

He showed up again already the next day, complimenting the taste, saying he has never tasted anything better. Leaving the store that day with new baked goods you had recommended. Ever since that he keeps coming and going, showering you with compliments on how good whatever is that you baked this time taste and your baking skills, and leaving with something new. Whenever he made his way to your store though, he felt the most excitement in being able to see you again, as well as little shyness. You were oh so sweet, might of come from all the sweet things you always enjoy. after all you’re what you eat. he thinks. The thought of asking you out on a date has been running around in his head more often than he’d like to admit, he never does though. Frank is sure you’d say no, why wouldn’t you? He’s also sure he wouldn’t be good enough for you, he wouldn’t be able to give you a stable life. Showing up late in the night covered in bruises and bleeding probably isn’t the sight you’d wish to wake to.

For the past few days though something in him keeps telling to just take his chances and ask you out, it’s not like he has anything to lose. And even that annoying kid spiderman keeps telling Frank that he’s too lonely and should get a social life, maybe that kid is right…

Which is why he’s walking towards your shop with bouquet of different kind of flowers in his hand. He’s clutching onto them tightly, he’s nervous, something that he hasn’t felt for a long time. You make him feel so many things he hasn’t felt since he was a boy, whenever you look at him with the bright smile of yours he feels sudden, fluttering feeling in his stomach. Which each step a new worry comes to his mind; what if you don’t like the flowers he gets you? What if you find the flowers stupid overall? What if you laugh at his face? Damn he’s a mess he thinks as he comes to massage the side of his head, hoping to ease his thoughts.

As soon as the ring of the bell announces his arrival you look up at him with the bright smile of yours and greet him, your eyes gaze down at the flowers in his hand as you ask “are those for someone special?”. All Frank manages to answer is just soft grunt though. He stays quiet for awhile, trying to gather his thoughts and find the right words to say

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something?”

“Yeah?”

“You can say no of course. It’s understandable if you say no- it would probably make more sense than if you said yes” he prattles, trying to say anything else beside the words he came here for, maybe your answer means more to him than he lets himself know. You don’t interrupt him, not even once, instead you listen to him patiently, sweet smile never leaving your face

“So what I wanted to say is that… could I take you out?”

“Like on a date?”

“Yeah… yea on a date”

“Yes. Yes I’ll happily go on a date with you”

“Really?” He mutter with a slight surprise on his face and voice “oh and these are also for you” He says as he hands you the bouquet from his hand “I hope you like them”

“I love them, thank you”